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

Dresses

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.