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I feel like a photograph
in a room filled
with impressionistic paintings
you can appreciate the beauty
in the colors
and the artistry
in the composition and technique
but what is there
is really a mirage
a partial image
made of someone elses
interpretation of the view
when you look at me closely
when you look at me far away
in a different room
in different light
I am still the same
you can pick out
intricate details
I am what I am
as real as the day I was snapped
an impressionistic painting
changes
with the lighting
with different brush strokes
with your nose pressed up against it
you never can tell
quite what it is
unless you squint
and wait for it to become
what its going to become
you have to have
the patience of Gandhi
and the understanding of Mother Teresa
while the vision unfolds
the beauty of me
is that I bare my soul
flaws and all
nothing is hidden
or remembered with
a rose-colored hue
what you see of me
is what you get of me
right away and always
nothing is veiled behind
fluffy clouds and soft waves
Ill never be
a great masterpiece
or auctioned off at Christies
but my power runs deeper
than the allure of
money and recognition
I am an anomaly
in a world filled with
Monets in frames
I am the lasting
vestige
of raw honesty
and detailed existence
as the subject changes
so will the picture that reflects it
regardless of the artists mood
or of the commission of a buyer

~ November 10, 2005