The broad horizon
The beginning has no origin
Stretching across a smooth ebony landscape
The occasional pimple
To bump the painting of the artiste
From afar it's prominent
Strong and muscular
You see it first
The fist one you pick
Not as soft as the crispy batter in the bakery
This pastry is different.
The temples
The upside down handles
That steer her thoughts
And bubble up on her brain
The words for the metaphor.
It's hard to spot under the shelf
Of her fringe
Hidden in disgust.
Quasimodo.
Her forehead.
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