Portrait

Breath, breath,

O portrait black,

With blind eyes do whisper,

Laugh now, whilst the paint is wet,

For once the lines are cold,

And the hand of reason stays,

Your smile shall freeze,

As you would cease, to exist, to evolve,

For on the threshold of perfection,

The mirror reflects no more,

But resigns in destitute,

Having been deemed futile.

Catharsis

The tree with a thousand branches,

Fell down one night,

And all who looked upon said ruin,

Despaired at the loss,

All but the woodcutter who nodded sagely,

And fished out his whetstone.