I am sick of plastic grins
And half-hidden sins,
And those who wink
And think
I do not see
What they see
In me.

Shall I spend my day
(Like Dorian Gray)
Gazing at a portrait
I hate,
Because it ages not,
While I lose the plot
And myself enfold
In arms that are loathe to hold?

In the attic of my mind
I find
Skeletons that given half a chance,
Would dance in the bright day
And give the game away.

It is plain to see
That it is me
Who holds the attic’s key
(Though I can not wield the knife
That will end the portrait’s life).