The Portrait

Years caught, time frozen,
In your innocent portrait,
Ageing silently with guilt,
Wednesdays wavered, time,
Lost beneath the canvas,
Smudged within brushstrokes,
Memories fade through,
Your paper fingers and feet,
Left, to walk hovering halls.

Chains scraping without sound,
Chalky, still floorboards,
Bound to the banister,
Bars, a noose held tightly,
Around your confession,
Your throat – choking words, silent,
Imprisoned inside, locked in a moment,
Sentenced to life, condemned,
Trapped existence,
And a guilty conscience.

Hanging on the wall, remember?
The woman, you found, dressed up,
Crimson and bruised,
From a hook on the wall, remember?
The mess, you left, drawn upon,
In emerald ink stains, furious hate,
Days wasted wallowing,
In a hollow, howling,
Cast to your fabric throne,

Hands washed with blood,
Captured within, forever,
A gallery of the past, remember?
The brother you framed,
Like, the portrait of you,
On the wall.



Image credit. 

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