I had seen a painting, entitled,
“The Portrait Of A Poet”, it was
perfect in its beauty, and yet
still, the viewer had not known
the secrets it held, the thorns
encasing the roses in the
garden surrounding her,
the book she held with
her heart’s song, the
symphony she veiled
In the sea of eyes
flowing from her
feet with faces
of a blank canvas,
seeking the color
of love, when they
gazed upon the
painting, they
did not see in
her eyes, the
one who saw
the beauty and
light in everything
within the greatest
suffering, they
looked past the
bird with the
shining wings
who lived in the
cage, she was
unaware of
her luminous
features as
her colors
were painted,
for the truth
of her lies
within the
flower of
purity,
touched
by the
moonlight,
she sits with her
demure hands
rested, gentle
and soft with
the gaze of
reverie, the
dreamer with
the heart
of the ocean,
opening her
embrace,
she seeks
nothing and
receives all,
the woman
with a soft
fringe
touching
her temple
once stroked
with her slender
fingers the
pages unseen
within the
books of
her enamor,
she was
enchanted
by fairytales,
and captivated
by the magic
unnoticed by
the ones who
possess them,
as they spoke
in cafes and
kissed within
the homes of
wondrous,
hidden places,
she saw the
rising stars
as he whispered,
“I love you”,
the man who
loved her
and longed
for her roses,
as he gazed
upon her
portrait,
as he
opened
as the
doors,
and they
sighed
in the union
of the swan
and the lover.
