The Painting

I swear I’ve seen the painting, he’s Dorian Gray,

But he’s also a menace molded from the cheapest clay.

There’s a splash of light right behind his pupil,

So beautiful it hurts, so bright it can’t be human.

And his hair falls right back into place each morning.

I can’t tell if I’m cursing him or simply adoring.

My head spins in circles as he untwists my tongue

And says a line or two about hoping to stay young.

I swear I’ve seen the painting, he’s Dorian Gray,

But he’s also the green light in Fitzgerald’s play.

Or was it a novel, an opera, a song?

Maybe he’s just a faux narrative we all got wrong?

The taste of deadly nightshade wraps my senses.

He must be an angel with the best kind of defenses.

There’s a splash of pitch black on his roaring chest,

So frighteningly dark my blood becomes blessed.

As I slip away, he looks right through me,

Coldly acting like someone who truly knew me.

I swear I’ve seen the painting, he’s Dorian Gray,

But he’s also a menace molded from the cheapest clay.

-Jackie