I stood there
admiring the colors  
pondering the angles and curves
what secrets lie within their contours?
what tales hide beneath their whorls?

what stories of old
are held captive
in the strong lines
and delicate curves

maybe the love of a knight
for an unattainable maiden
is trapped in the bold furrows
and the depth of her yearning
for her beloved hero
is immortalized in the arcs of the brushstrokes

their story
one of passion and of sorrow
of torment and pain
blazes fiercely from the paint
scorching my heart

but what if there is no story to be held?
what is there is nothing behind the facade?
what if the painting is just a painting?

there is no meaning
woven into the canvas
brought to life through paint

it is just a series of lines and bends
a simple set of angles and curves.