his eyes appear,
where his thoughts steer him absent
dipping his hands in to the water
cleansing his palette,
he's stationary,
engulfed in the smog of
today's disapproval
he's done it to himself.
allowing validations to consume
his talents,
looking to the reflection to refuse
his boundaries
removing strings of hair from his view
rooted to the hard wood floor.
you found me
gasping at the man in the iris
as his hands meet the knife
to leave the shell lifeless
©friedman27
F