Monday, February 26, 2018

To the Woman in an Artist's Studio

Immortalizing her in paint so she can never escape him
It is a twisted color that binds her to the page
A vile blot that traces against ill parchment
And wrinkles under weather and rage

She is of solitude and of man’s craftsmanship
Snatched from her room like a flame snuffed
Enough of his careless penmanship!
Words will never speak for her enough

"And if folly and fae do tantalize the mind
I hope to sink in it’s dreams with her and
Ensnare what is left of our logic and rhyme
Until we breach the caverns that lay under land"

He paints with a brush as thick as his brow
And he scorns the page with his gaze
The male, he knows, applies the pressure of stroke
And brings to her the weather and rage

No comments:

Post a Comment