The canvas is bare and the base coat is pain,
as we begin our self-portrait, muting
even the sharpest delineations, the staunchest hues.
We dream of truer colors until some cry of pain,
returns us abruptly to the task at hand.
But, soon we shall drift away once more,
to conjure up another masterpiece of illusion,
hovering abstractly over palette, canvas and easel.
The base coat is pain and the atelier door
is locked from the outside.
The portrait paints itself –
beyond our judgment, control or critical flair
and we are, alas, try as we might,
bound inextricably to our labor,
yet, unable to add or subtract a single stroke.
O child of God, the origin of ego is attachment
made manifest through ceaseless imaginings.
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