Stranger Whom I’ve Met

Who is that, with lines carved on an untouched canvas?

Lines that run deeper the more she caresses them?

Lines hallowed by meaningless fears and the fear of being meaningless.

Who is that, with two tarnished diamonds perched on an invisible throne?

Aimlessly looking for a sparkle that was never theirs,

forever condemned to the ruthlessness of despair.

Who is that, with bloodstained cheeks?

streaked not with embarrassment but with red artificiality,

made up to cover her spots of genuinity.

Who is that, with a crescent moon hanging its head down low?

ashamed of the brightness it could bring to the bleakest of nights,

but too prideful to let sunlight shoulder the ache of his plight.

Who is that, I wonder?

Her face a beautiful caricature of disaster.

If beauty was carefully constructed deformity,

she would be art devoured by its monstrosity.

Who is that, I wish I knew,

Opposite of replicas but replicas of two opposites.

For she was sown from the roughness of silk

while I was cut from the finest of plastic.