Each time she looked at paintings they came alive
yet the worst were always seascapes whose
rage spilled over the corners of their frames
It would be more romantic to say paintings cried
and battle scenes raged with war and bedlam
or dead kings must be rolling in their graves
knowing their immortalized wives gave flowers
to twenty first century Davids
She needn’t touch when a gaze is as golden
but tell that to the staff of the Louvre Prado or Rijksmuseum
who put her face on wanted signs
The Mona Lisa was the final straw who witnessed
with ancient eyes the world’s sole painting whisperer
stain marble floors not with tears but blood
But why not
Who wishes to know that all they really know is
that much of what they know is wrong?