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The Artist

I knew an artist once
She would paint through those parts in her
That bled from neglect

In here frames,
There would always be a woman
Who will always be engulfed
In flames masquerading like oysters
Or tresses
Or even

For a decade or more
She would paint me in dark colors
She would scratch me with her palette knives
And write on me with her pens
And often, she would step back a bit
And look at me like I were her Art.

You smile still!
And she would start all over again.


  1. Wow! This is razor-sharp and amazing. Being caught for a decade or more in such dark artistry is tragic and devastating.

    1. I agree, Jennifer! Quite riveting right from the beginning!


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