I want to see your face,
the wonder of your eyes
So turn around.
Surprisingly I felt nothing.
Was it because it was just a photograph?
Or was it because I have drained all that stupidity?
I wish it was because I am now invincible to your trickery.
I wonder how it would feel like
when I get to see you again
and speak to you again
touch you again.
Could I be on my feet?
Be not like the saint you once portrayed.
Be not the musician you once depicted.
Be not the teacher you once hid into.
For I am now the artist that is not fooled by any fake magician.
I am the writer that writes about deceptions–
And now I have my charcoal and my paint, my paste and my thread,
my strings and my needles
To put things back together,
Except you and me.