A saber slashing freely at the page,

A feral staccato dance built of Conte’ crayons,

inspiration in a mirror

of Titanium white, Mars black, Scarlet red.

The Phantom face stretched in minutes–

its life is frozen: a gray, paper continuum.

“Who…? Who are you?”—yet speechless it returns a stare.

 

Sinking away to shudders, muscles relax.

A remnant of firebirth, the portrait…complete.

Shell torn away from them both.

Flesh or fiber complements, preserves life in the other.

The Phantom is thrown to a chorus

voices whispered in a gallery—

crucified on tacks, set in place.

Visage released, it gazes away…