
Self Portrait
I turn my back on this frosty morning
Stubbornly licking my insincere tears
I am not to be comforted by the weary and old
Rude and common, threadbare in the age of riches
Stirring wind in our pots of gold
Not fit to beg on a church's steps
Not presentable enough to step out in the street
I hang my head like a child
Finding himself in the crook of an arm
His legs still kicking and raising the dust
That never settles his wild refuse I wait to be gathered in these unwanted arms
Already vibrating around me like an aura
Making the taste of my wantonness exquisite
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// A poem by Oana Rusu Tomai
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March 2021
Acrylic and Oil on canvas
Dreams
The distance between how I thought my life would be and how it came to be, I don't know to calculate it. ....
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Random Thoughts: The distance of dreams (sandadiary.blogspot.com)
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January 2022
Acrylic on canvas
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