They say art is beautiful

And so are women.

Of course that’s true

Sometimes they co-exist

The woman as the art- the art as the woman

One an unrelenting epitome of the other

Behind closed doors, she is his muse.

A canvas he loves to paint on

For weeks-and then months
A fetish of his mind

His private mind

Where all his guilty pleasures lie

She becomes persuaded
by an unconventional reality

Occasionally forgetting-

she was never the masterpiece

That she will never be

The one placed at the forefront of the Gallery.
The one everybody’s eyes adorn first

His greatest work.

Every other day

Is a constant reminder

She was never

Isn’t-
And never will be his Monalisa