A Self-Portrait

Now, let me paint a portrait here, of me,
Of all my wandering wailings in the wind;
A painting, from the port where I begin
To where, in fine, my soul shall be released.
But colors—what to use? Use Brown? Use Gray?
I think to use them all would be a waste…
And then, my painted hair, my painted eyes –
In truth, what more are they then false disguise?
No soul could catch a glimpse of what is “I,”
That Paste of life that is that ALL I am;
No eyes could slowly scratch, with clawing sighs
Their ways into my underground – I stand,
In lonely comfort, terrified, and proud,
For I am One, a Lone Almighty Shroud.