There's Arnold
With his back to me
Wandering down through an ill-lit street
I'm curious
And would like to entreat
Is this inspiration or self-defeat?

And from the corner, his figure fades
And should I follow or retrograde?

There's Anton
With a furrowed brow
A crooked finger and non-plussed scowl
There's symmetry
He will soon endow
Crafting tone rows with his head faced down

If I take pleasure in melodies
Have I betrayed best tendencies?

Oh Alban
We part our hair the same
Posing next to a drawer and frame
At 23 and two years of age
Your work is tasteful, your life's urbane
As for the despots who bring you down
A century later, they're still around

And so I sit by the windowsill
Feeling sad, the questions linger still
I'm trying to decide if it's fake or real

I'm all alone
In a noisy throng
Nameless and ageless, all strung along
Nobody else can name this song
Mispronunciations and words spelled wrong

At times like these, I think I'm on my own
A new self-portrait of my own