Faceless face

An aged couch, an ill-lit room
A dusty book in hand – proly Blake
I look around, and not by chance
The faceless ladies caught my glance.
All were given umbrellas, painted in vibrant pinks and flaming reds
But She held one – pretty vague!

Is she the cast or the outcast?

Something odd in the way she stands
I see one leg but not the next.

While the rest had a certain poise,
their dress’ furled and twirled

Had the artist missed the strokes
Or on purpose was her garment stiff?

There’s a jovial air about the standing crowd
But a facelessness to her faceless face.

Is what I see a fancy of my left side brain
Or is it me I see in the faceless face?


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