The portrait, shrouded in plastic,
hangs in the loft like an exhibit
in the Gallery of Modern Art.
Inside, a face, bust size,
patchy skin, penetrating eyes,
mole below lips, eyebrows thick,
singular features in an innocuous face.

Terrifying, this packing away
in frames, polythene, white cloth;
the portrait resembles a monk
in saffron robes—
the silence never wears off.

Moth-chewed lips,
mildew around nose,
white ant devoured ears,
spider webs, chin to forehead.

Left to their fate,
colours bleed, the blush fades.
The portrait mutely marks time.