He drew a self portrait
and on the paper
he shaded indiscernible shapes 
that looked like sounds
with a graphite beat

What is that I asked
what is what
those things, the blobs
the blobs are me 

How could it be?
He was just an amorphous figure 
floating through time
floating through life

And maybe, maybe
he knew himself and 
possibly the world, 
better than any of us

Because in the end 
there are no portraits 
and we are all a blur