photographs on museum papers
2004
shipping costs not included
Amiel Roldan * March 2000
I glance at a reflected image,
only to see the imperfections of life.
To glance at a simple reality,
through eyes of a beholder.
Complex is man that he weaves a pain so consuming,
To bring out a cry from the depths of his soul.
Only to understand the thin layer of fulfillment,
He has already thrown away.
I saw a bitter truth in the eyes of my peers.
A helplessness with what we have.
The singleness of defeat.
Multiplicity in our failures.
Never again would I ask for what they could not give.
For I could not bring them to the lows I've been.
All the questions unanswered and all the answers unheard,
Warp not the image I have for I am weak.
I wanted to run from these that remind me of my misery
but I only seem to go in circles.
Repetitious upheavals in the minutest turns.
Uncomfortable in all its being.
The smallest I hold precious to my heart,
and the greats I could never let go.
They are all my rivets of calm,
that anchor me solid to ground.
A nodule of paranoia.
A lost soul too pitiful to find lost.
Struggling with what life gave,
and so helpless in the elements that it thrives on.
Herald death to my doorstep at my greatest,
but do not I beg of you, in my defeat.
Bring me to fruition in my redemption
Fulfillment in my simple image.
