The Portrait

I was and am

Thief king fool man

All or one or none

The crowds see each other

Their children yet another

I’m a museum piece

A mirage on a mirror

A man who became a painting

A painting who became a wall

Only I see the golden owl sit on its bell

Noticing things

Seeing much and saying nothing

Winking its eyelid to speak

The silence of what’s true

Bests the music of what’s known

I miss the winter stars, cold and clear

And far

I cannot tell anyone they are my real home