01/13/07

She painted his portrait dutifully,
Renowned for capturing essence,
And having risen to his servants challenge,
Painted dawn till dusk for completion of his image.

Carefully he had set the pose,
Reclining on a velvet sofa,
Gallant composure,
Brazenly displaying expensive heirlooms,
And smiling assuredly.

First glimpse brought horror to the master,
For rather too acurately,
Was the cold malice in his eyes conveyed,
Brush strokes accounting for every line of guilt etched on his face,
No amount of glue,
Could piece back the shattered lives of his country men,
Or bring back loved ones
Taken on a whim,
Round cheeks reflecting an expensive appetite,
Earned on the backs of skeletons.

Glaring back from the canvas,
He saw his own childish fears driving the nightmare,
Mounting behind pursed lips.
From inside the smooth exterior,
Something snapped,
Ordering her to the chambers,
The artist let out a bewildered and innocent moan.

Easle crashing to the floor, the crowd remained silent,
And looking around the hall, teeth clenched,
He roared " Is there another artist among us?"

Copyright Anna Marshall 13/01/07