Sep 2019
A wisp of a breath, a flick of a brush,
The canvas begins to be filled with colour.
A hint of violet, a dab of vermillion,
It seems that she is painting a girlish parlour.
A red drips slowly down her wrist,
As she wipes away at her work.
The foggy glass seems to offer some relief,
Against the cold harsh winter.
The girl stands on her frost-bitten toes
And look upon the scene with wonder.
As the tantalizing warmth appear against her fingers
She can't help but ponder.
Why are some people in the parlour
But others look from the outside in?
For she can't help but question
What is deep within.
The canvas begins to be filled with colour.
A hint of violet, a dab of vermillion,
It seems that she is painting a girlish parlour.
A red drips slowly down her wrist,
As she wipes away at her work.
The foggy glass seems to offer some relief,
Against the cold harsh winter.
The girl stands on her frost-bitten toes
And look upon the scene with wonder.
As the tantalizing warmth appear against her fingers
She can't help but ponder.
Why are some people in the parlour
But others look from the outside in?
For she can't help but question
What is deep within.
This scene is depicting a girl looking into a parlour in the midst of winter. She does not understand why she cannot go in even though she is freezing. The concept of social hierarchy seems like a world away yet she tries her hardest to get a peak of what is going on inside. She had cut herself on some patches of the uneven glass and her lips were turning blue from the frost-bite. I would like to think that this takes place in Russia.
