The artist never sets down her brush,
Though many days she'd like to.
In every sigh, she lets by
Another stroke; She puts her touch
On the painting of her life.

More beautiful than all of her works,
Yet still her portrait's blue.
She can't hide what's inside:
A soul so sad, to feel it truly hurts.
Such that she fears any sight.

Yet every painting has a frame to hold it:
The artist is no different.
In his eyes, she's a prize
Worth any burden, no matter how cold.
The artist denies her beauty.

She finds herself undeserving of a frame;
She finds her soul indecent.
She is blind, she will find,
And her frame will discover the same
And hold her. It's his duty.