Lady of the Portrait

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.

Maker

But Maker not so humble,
With which shall fall to crumble,
And be ought to start with flesh,
His sand that forms the mesh,

Casts him away distant and free,
Breathes life anew ere long he flee,
Hears his name for first ere forget,
Lasts while but changed lest in regret,

Whence learns to walk, learns to talk,
Hence yearns to bond, bears to sulk,
This life a spiked drink to drink
Where but ne walks towards brink,