Now as Bounty was now a popular painter, he began to get recognition by many. He travelled to different countries, being invited to paint for nobles and royals from far and wide. But even as he painted more and more, one painting always remained the talk of the town. Many asked him to paint more of the same, but none turned out to be as good as the first.
And so the journey of that painting began. It was sold and resold; over and over until it became one of the most expensive paintings of Bounty's time. But in all its glory, in all its fame, the painter was lost behind the painting and its name. He grew to hate her, he soon despised her. He wondered why she had even come to him. She brought him fortune but also pain, he felt defeated, for all he had done to be happy somehow felt vain.
For he was naive. And in his naïveté, he was seduced by her touch, her whispers in the lonely nights and teasing in his lowest times. With a glass in his hand, he sipped on the scotch. "She wasn't preeminence, she was my arrogance; she wasn't a beauty, she was my envy. How could did I not realise this earlier?"
He looked at all the paintings and how hard he tried to make them look alike. But all in vain. He walked to them and bent down. "Do you know why I can't paint you like before? Do you know why you begun to feel like a sudden sore? It is because I was under your spell, I was enchanted by your lies; you made me forget and I began drowning in your well. You deceived me and I called you woman of my dreams. How I been a fool, but all you will be is the seductress."
In a hasty decision, he sold all that he had painted, to the last painting. But in one the chaos, one stayed behind, waiting.
YOU ARE READING
Unfinished Painting
PoetryA little bit of a story, a little bit of poetry. Walk through the life of a young man as he battles with society, talent and wealth.
