emmaleems:

The entrance to the portrait gallery hides behind the corner store.
It’s got brightly painted walls of reds and greens and teals,
but no plaques, no painters– only patrons passing through.

The pale-haired son trailing at his father’s feet stares at 
the image of a beaten worshipping woman with hands clasped tight in front of her,
prayers turned protection for all her bones had failed.

The girl who doesn’t speak or smile with her teeth examines
the golden hair of a boy on fire, skin crumbling
into cigarette ash that piles on his father’s desk.

The woman with the cross around her neck studies
the frame of a grinning girl with no tongue,
her sharp teeth smoothed and whittled down to none.

And reflecting all who pass by the corner near the door,
a wall to wall glass canvas of a figure
with absolutely no face at all.

People Watching in Carnival Mirrors || Emma-Lee M.