the girl was beautiful even then
a blur of charcoal and sea foam
subtle curves with soft, yearning
eyes
her adoration was reflected in the
hooded
eyes of the
painter who laid her skeleton out
to dry.

he spoke to her often, his only friend,
filling her with ideas of sea shell pink
lips, and a rose red heart to match
his own
his idle fingers held the brush, dipped
in rose and sea shell dust,
but he did not fill in
the cream canvas skeleton.

the artist was a gargoyle in stretched
flesh, garishly painted in obscene brights
lime green, neon orange, fire engine red
but with the wipe of the artist cloth
the colors fell away and she would see
the monotone palette that the paint kept
hidden away.

with trembling hands, she took the oil
pastel from the gargoyle's hands, and
slowly, timidly, colored in her own
heart, filled in her own eyes, and colored
in her void until she became a tiger blossom
lily of her own accord.

With pen we show our hearts
True feelings to our cores
Through this very medium we share it across the shores
For me it was my once wife
That led me to this strife

In healing I put pen to paper
That'll  be the reason we write
For they wrote on our hearts
Be they not the poets?
The poets of our hearts!
©️