Through the Blinds

Something there is that doesn't love a face;
That paints its cheeks and shades in disgrace.
Something there is that is ashamed of form;
That hides itself away and cowers forlorn.

With wisdom and prestige its blinds are made
To conceal inner feelings and loves betrayed,
And show others its tortured soul's lies
While alone its dream can live otherwise.

Through that window, a secret I can see;
A calm dream escaped from its liberty,
And with curious but timid.eyes, I must
Hide from her, in this place we can trust.

About the poet/painter