She looks at the canvas
Blank, taught, pristine
Background decisions
All in the mood, how does she feel?
Oil, water, spray, or acrylic
So many choices, to let her soul lay bare
Subjects to paint, what will it be
Endless options, What does she see?
In her paintings, a dragon often revealed
Sometimes, fragile
Sometimes, fierce
A self-portrait of sorts, How is she revealed?
This is how I saw her, how I fell in love.
Tiny brushstrokes, her heart for those to see
But only to those who knew how to look.
Beyond the brushstrokes, beyond her veil.
But I lay distraught, this is not an easy love
Like our mutual favorite, I stare into the Starry Night
Sometimes I feel the despair, the doubt, and I am unsure
Hoping I fair better than the ear in hand
Her brushstrokes are upon me, like paintings in her hall
Hidden hearts, separate and removed
She paints me, a poet with her hand
I accept her, and her brushstrokes upon my heart
Jan 23, 2025
Jan 23, 2025 at 12:48 AM UTC
She looks at the canvas
Blank, taught, pristine
Background decisions
All in the mood, how does she feel?
Oil, water, spray, or acrylic
So many choices, to let her soul lay bare
Subjects to paint, what will it be
Endless options, What does she see?
In her paintings, a dragon often revealed
Sometimes, fragile
Sometimes, fierce
A self-portrait of sorts, How is she revealed?
This is how I saw her, how I fell in love.
Tiny brushstrokes, her heart for those to see
But only to those who knew how to look.
Beyond the brushstrokes, beyond her veil.
But I lay distraught, this is not an easy love
Like our mutual favorite, I stare into the Starry Night
Sometimes I feel the despair, the doubt, and I am unsure
Hoping I fair better than the ear in hand
Her brushstrokes are upon me, like paintings in her hall
Hidden hearts, separate and removed
She paints me, a poet with her hand
I accept her, and her brushstrokes upon my heart
I realize that some of my poetry is happy, some sad, but all is from a place of love. As I weave the tale of how this artist captured the very thing I thought I lost. Or am I merely an idea upon her canvas, each brushstroke, a gentle nudge upon my beating heart.
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