Praise
You paint me within these grandiose strokes
In fractals of irrational growth,
In picturesque palettes of parlous hope,
“Praise” is the fiction your prose upholds.
How can you butcher a figure so dull?
Your vibrant brushstrokes are founded in null.
On a canvas you cowardly craft me a whole,
But outside of a canvas, command no control.
Your lucid landscape of boundless size
Will never match the vacuous skies
In which my authentic portrait hides
Why root me in soil where I won’t survive?
Don’t pull me down, oh, hear my cry!
Don’t crown me royal, my throne’s of lies.
Don’t sketch the stars, they shine too high.
Don’t draw me wings, when I’ll never fly.
A frail clay figure, just coated in gold;
Mold me in poses that never will hold.
With a crude finish, the story you’ve told,
At a notion of thought, collapses, unfolds.