hangs a portrait of a dreamhead
a shadowblack surface, features
white worms of paint
conjoin into a face, terrifying
the eyecores that escaped
from my own vision
lip delineated in a smile snarl
I am unsure what it means to me
For some time now
the frame hangs askew
I must have bashed it
returning home one night
the face is turned in a questioning tilt.
Every night (even last) I told myself
I would set it to order, centre it again
said the words aloud
but did not move to amend
in the mornings, life gets in the way
so for months - the same, it hangs akilter
I could rectify the slant now
instead, it seemed important
to write this out
