The Lady In The Portrait
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Her poems paint a self-portrait
Of a face she hides from the world;
Secrets well-guarded, slowly revealed,
Each line a new chapter unfurled
Every word that drips from her pen
Is likened to paint on the knife;
From sunlit paths that lead to dark caves,
She paints the story of her life
Stroke after stroke the words are placed
Upon the warped canvas of time;
The torment that each lonely day brings
Urges her to dress it in rhyme
Are lonely days not punishment
Enough for this painter of verse?
Yet, night only grants her fitful sleep
As her woes refuse to disperse
O, painter of a thousand words,
Your cruel fate has taken its toll,
Leaving you to walk this Earth alone
With weary heart and sick of soul
With open eyes she lays dreaming
Of the day love will grace each dawn;
Little does she know her fate is sealed:
Long ago her portrait was drawn
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