She was the most beautiful of poets
But the words lay trapped in her head
Occasionally out her thoughts would slip
In characters of crimson red
She used a different type of pen
With an awe of color-changing ink
That run across her papers and canvases
Exhibiting a surprise of purples, whites, and pinks
It's an art that follows her six feet under
For it is in-perservable
But her art work will always be remembered
For being ever so colorful