Portraits I think of life as a great hall of portraits Great mosaics with many different feelings Where every brushstroke tells of joy and pain, Of sunshine and sorrow, of loss and gain, And I am both the artist and the art, Creating my portrait with every beat of my heart. And suddenly I see this hall is only for me. I paint my own destiny. No other people write for me. But sometimes I stop and see the paintings that used to be. Withered and broken, but almost unspoken. I wonder what would be if I would've carried on my creativity. And I try to carry on with paintings anew But the brushstroke is fading, getting loose. And I look up to see a painting of me. Not one of sadness nor happiness, nor grief, or anger. But it was one of infinity.
(Not my photo)
