Fixed

Right along the wall

I find myself stationed,

Crooked to the others.

I remain fixed in place,

Yet by The Perfect One

I am made parallel.

My bright portrait

Protrudes from my frame.

Scowls surround me,

All of which come from

The wandering eyes

Of paper thin canvases.

Those poor beauties!
They are so busy

Tilting themselves to me

That they miss The One

Straightening them the same.