Thou Art a Work of Art: The Abstract
You are more than those flamboyant paintings of scenery,
Neither those ubiquitous realism paintings
That was created by well-known artists of 1880.
You are as peculiar as an abstract painting.
Abstract painting—
Gives such a perplexed meaning.
Just like your puzzled stare—
As frigid as the shivery breeze of December.
As I kept on staring,
Those details were captivating.
Those random, yet profoundly constructed lines—
Perfectly scattered on a bare canvas—
Looking like vines.
An unsolved mystery,
Which I interpret patiently.
A code to decipher,
Which I analyze in a partial manner.
You are the abstract painting
That I have always been admiring.
You might view yourself as a mess,
But in you I have found solace.
—Mademoiselle
YOU ARE READING
Loving in the Dead of Winter
Poetryloving you is like walking through those sharp glasses. it's getting more painful as I keep going.
