This is how my critics will remember me,
the painter gone raving mad in his studio,
a scape of land or sea sadly unfinished,
a sky so morosely dark the blue dappled to gray.
These eyes once joyfully squinted out of focus
so that I might envision the sketched canvas
imbued with pigments, a painting brushed into life.
Now the eyes you see in this self-portrait
lock themselves in a black-rimmed bugging stare
that confesses lunacy. Bands and splotches of red,
blue and yellow: colors meant for saner work.
What am I thinking here? Will a caption save me?
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