Four Portraits

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