Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Mar 2011
He walks through a wood once every month
He takes the same route near The Wishing Pond

He meets with the Collector in a secluded building
Who never fails to purchase every new painting

The man was an artist, the Collector was a fan
His works and his reputation was known throughout the land

The Artist had it all: a nice house, a loving wife,
friends in every town and city, and wealth to last his life

Every month, another painting
Every month, the Collector's money

His life was set, his life was perfect
All he needed as an artist was a self portrait

So this next month's painting would be special
For when he would pass, this will be his memorial

He started on an early morning, standing in front of a mirror
With skill and patience, shading and texture, the first sketch was done

The painting process took a few days
Without sleep or food, for hours in his room he stayed

Near the end of the month, the portrait finally done
Proud and exhausted, the artist exclaimed, "This is a special one."

The next day, he readied his portrait to take
To the Collector, who was expecting to be amazed

With a glance at the picture before he could leave
He noticed many flaws and said, "I want a perfect me"

He sent a letter explaining the delay
To the Collector, disappointed, he lessened the pay

For days, the Artist fixed each flaw
The big ears, the small nose, the feminine jaw

Every day he found a new imperfection
But after months and months of fixing, he achieved satisfaction

He took his self portrait on his once monthly walk
To the Collector's house, pass The Wishing Pond

He tripped on a rock, dropping his portrait
Falling into the pond, his art was ruined

The canvas had sunk, the water grew murky
The paint spread around and clouded before him

The cloudy colors swirled in the water's waves
The Artist, distraught, sat in heartache

A figure rose from the water, the colors had faded
He recognized it immediately as the perfection he painted

His portrait was alive for to not be was imperfect
His creation looked back at him and exclaimed, "I am The Artist"

Throughout the years, the portrait had adopted The Artist's life
With perfect skills, perfect fame, and even the love of his wife

The Collector, impressed by its own work, gave it double the pay
He also terminated his contract, he and the Artist had made

The Artist was left with nothing
His life stolen by his painting

Embodied perfection had taken it all
Living wishful thinking, alive from The Pond

He tasked, and pushed, and berated himself to achieve perfection
He succeeded, but lost everything to his perfect version.
Daniel Christopher Chavez
   Gnirednaw, ---, Tanakar and ---
Please log in to view and add comments on poems