Dream Portrait. (Revised).

Last night I drew your portrait in my mind,
A delicate pencil sketch
That scarcely marked the white paper,
A flat image bereft of depth or shadow.

I have almost forgotten the colours in your eyes,
The tender lilt of your Irish voice,
The remarks that kept me in order;
But the furrow that sometimes formed upon your forehead,
Especially when I hurt you, haunts me always,
Much like a jagged scar that never fades.

This attempt at veracity was a dismal failure,
It was, after all, only a dreamed up image, distinctly monochrome,
A hazy outline of who I think you are,
Much like a memory not touching the heart of the matter.

Time past I could recall a clearer image,
A Kodachrome portrait precise in every detail, as taken from real life:
But now I am old it seems safer for me to pretend
That I cannot remember true facts, only their pale facsimiles.

And perhaps I have been dishonest for much of my life,
Not staring truth straight in the face, but always askance,
And therefore have lost my way, my sense of purpose,
And the person I dared to cherish.



Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
May 7th. - 8th. - July 24th.2015.