Alex

Long spent and bloody hands

Screams of old and forgotten

Eyes peer through the painted lens

A canvas painted by a truth teller

Only to fall pray to the face that plays upon the colors

Pictures and words are taken in his creation

Each brush stroke telling a different lie in his work

From the circling of those eyes

That so carefully holds the door shut on each skeleton

The tinting of the skin that scars bear a different horror behind

The flowing of every stained sting of hair that lays on a confessed mind

To the placement of each blood painted hand

To the position of the killers body in his chained down world

The painting by a truth teller of a liar and his lying ways

These features so familiar to some and so foreign to others

And just as this painter tugs at your memory to easy your mind

I hold fast to my words knowing that accusing my finger is pointed

But before I speak let me look to this painter and ask this question

“How did you paint this so familiar, so perfect, without ever seeing my face before”?