The portrait never shows the time or pain behind every brush stroke are flaws so easily hidden in the beauty that stands before us now.

It's a slow death in the pages and
a world of torment so easily escaped in this room alone.

I can show any emotion so why must I stay here in the confines of this one .

Maybe we **** what we love the most simply to watch it die.
The innocence lost with time now the bitter winds flow so cold through the trees that once knew spring .

Can we see it for what it truly is .
The art we create and the happiness we sacrifice along the way .

Old paintings like tombstones are simply markers of a time the earth did embrace our existence.

And something I know longer can bare to view .