On the streets, in restaurants, in stores,
I paint your face onto the faces of other men.
And withdraw my brush stroke
quick before the colors fade.
I’ve taught myself to soar
by running on acrylic fumes.
I fall over a stupid cliché,
in the name of aviation (obsession).
Even the metaphors shutter.
The poem and soul seek preservation.
Your face, the face of artistry,
is the face of all men.
I see you everywhere.
You’re what I see when what I see isn’t there.
Punishment? Retribution? Either or,
it’s enough, cries the synonym.