There she stands in portrait
Her face hung to the wall
No structure there supports her
How is it she don’t fall?
Every stroke of which she’s made
By an artist’s hand not hers
The more her features blur
Which fades in the sun’s ray
Her eyes they are missing
Just skin where they should be
She does not see she’s lying
How could she- She can’t see
Her hair blows in portrait
The wind that blows is fake
Not there for its own sake
Much like a plastic flower hue
But ain’t it just worth asking,
“is any of this true?”
Bookmarks