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The Portrait
June 5, 2014
Just a picture within a picture
no heart buried beneath.
Cannot express any feelings
though feeling so much grief.
The crimson blood drips like paint
onto the floor down below.
Along with salt water tears
from all the pain you did bestow.
You are the artist while I'm the drawing,
you had painted my fate.
The bow of the brush
dipped in your soul full of hate.
Colors of sorrow swirling hastily
across the faded canvas face.
The fight against this growing disturbance
is like an unremitting race.
© Anton J., Philadelphia, PA
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To love is to be vulnerable; Triumph is born out of struggle; We notice shadows most when they stand alone in the midst of overwhelming light.