Each stroke,
Made with such finality,
Such talent, the feeling is so real,
The art must be the new reality,
The man in the corner looks up for the first time in an hour,
He realizes the little artist,
She's art of her own kind,
She's more beautiful than any flower,
She's a tempest,
She's got inside his mind,
He sees her drawing the face of another man,
He turns away and back again,
There's a shimmer in her eyes,
He runs towards her as she cries,
She collapsed into his arms,
He held her on the floor,
Hours go by,
He loves her as she's in shards,
She yells that she's nothing but a whore,
He silences her and says, "No, you're just dealt some bad cards",
He's in love forevermore,
The outdoors become their dance floor,
She asks if he loves her like the day they met,
He says, "Yes, and even more",
He tells her how she makes him feel free,
How in the end she gives him his main purpose,
She responds that he shouldn't depend on her for glee,
He says, "I don't, I have other joys too,
But you make me the most happy",
And the artist put the brush away for the day,
She starts cutting away,
With every slice she makes him cry,
He yells,
"If she is to die,
Then so am I",
But she came to him in a dream just before and said,
"I made this mistake on my own, love,
Please don't make this your deathbed,
I think you're the most beautiful of all of love's doves",
They loved so much,
And she drew them as such,
-
Author:
Raskolnikov (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: July 25th, 2017 14:46
- Category: Love
- Views: 27
Offline)
Comments3
Very well written, excellent!
Thank you, appreciate it very much!
So well crafted - a great work.
Thank you much, kind sir
“If she is to die, then so am I”. Beautifully written. Bravo. Thanks for sharing.
Thank you, I appreciate the kind words
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