I looked at him,
And as I did,
I saw everyone I’d ever loved;
All rapped into one.
As I painted him,
A brushstroke on the page,
I realized I would one day die...
And that so did he.
And I recognized him.
Unlike I’d ever seen anyone before.
Because I realized,
That he had lived,
That he was born.
He was a boy,
With thoughts of his own.
In this world-
I’d never thought of a persons soul.
His eyes touched me-
Like he could reach off of the page.
He wasn’t alive,
But for this break in time-
He was free.
Free from the constraints of death.
Free from the ravishes of life.
Free from being dead,
And free from being alive.
I was the portrait of the dead boy.
And so are you.
I’ve never looked at someone before-
And seen everyone that had ever lived.
This portrait was not dead.