Help me, for canvas imprisoned here,
A respite too short for crowds near,
Mine art is subtle, if not to freeze;
I weep, for this smile would not cease,
That nearby clock, you see? I count all,
Seconds pass, every hour, till it tolls,
Beckon mine eyes apart; one is faded,
If tears allow, the other shall be aided,
I am cursed by paint; he is cursed to paint,
If he saw my tears, could it be he’d faint?
This potrait is alive, I am seeing you;
I can hear every word you utter anew,
Ev’ry argument; ev’ry debate; ev’ry word.

I can make out a reddened eye you broke,
A single eye that tears, without art provoke,
Twas how I felt when I was being drawn,
No more. The Lady of the Portrait is born.
In stormy weather; I am here: a rain pours,
My naked hand an umbrella poised by force,
A drooping head since these long years,
My constancy is but a sum of all my fears,
Now I’m free a while, to step into your world,
Examine all that is, understand all you mold;
In the midst of silent dark where non can see,
So give me leave so that privy I may be free,
No amount of patents you call, nor right of work
Ought make demise of my being nor essence a work,
I dedicate silent acclaim to a silent wish,
Now I but dance alone is all I sole cherish.

With fading time, softening wind, my drooping pursue:
A time is nigh for all fun to end and pain ensue,
For an obligation to fulfill, a frame calls me near,
That same frame, whose bars encapsulate me dear
Here I am, back, and as though nothing was meant,
Alone and in disgust, this portrait that I say,
A sun that melts me, a rain washes all away.

Mysterious, Poetry, Works
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