As I followed the outline of the portrait,
Letting my eyes traverse every curve, every bend,
Every graphite residue
That pushed it away from the vastness of the paper,
Every one of the million points,
That conferred its shape,
Every stroke of brush and fate,
That escorted its evolution to a form,
Every detail and deviation,
That gave life to the figure....
The rest of the chart glared back at me,
Screaming a statement,
That it belonged in the picture
By staying away,
That it created the structure
By its non contribution,
That its conspicuous in the image
By its absence…
The frame is but life,
Carved by events,
That occurred,
And that did nt.
