The Portrait

The Portrait

I was and am
Thief king fool man
Folks in the crowd view each other
Only their children see me

I’m a museum piece
A mirage on a mirror
A man who became a painting
A painting propped on a wall

I miss the winter stars
Cold, clear, far
I cannot tell anyone
They are my real home

The silence of what’s true
Bests the music of what’s known