The Painting

1 0 0
                                    

She's got the eye of a photographer,
The prose of a poet,
The grace of a drunkard,
The agility of a Fox,
The history of an unwanted child,
The knowledge of the night owl
And the heart of a woman hurt too much,
When she met him,
She was a puzzle for him to figure out.
She was the beauty he'd never seen,
He began to paint her on a canvas with every layer he broke past,
He paint another piece of the picture.
They fell in love and as their life together went on,
Another stroke was painted,
Their family grew,
A flower for each,
They got older,
A stroke,
The children moved out.
The sun rose,
He couldn't open his hands,
Yet he still painted her.
Her smile never faded,
When no one existed to her,
He still did.
This old man,
dragged the old canvas
To his love.
She saw the colors,
The bright
Happy yellows
Deep hidden Blues,
Majestic purples,
Firey Reds,
Light pinks,
He painted her perfectly,
She was a perfectly imperfect woman
And he managed to capture it.
Each stroke was a memory,
A memory they'd have for the rest of their life.
So you see my daughter,
that's the story behind my picture.
Your mother never knew,
Till the day she left us
For a far prettier place.
So on this day,
Where you start out with your love,
This is for you.
I loved your mother so very dearly,
each stroke represents the love
For the sweet rose
I grew to know.
Take my picture,
Then you'll have her with you,
She'll remind you that
She was perfectly imperfect,
Just as you.

The Roads TakenWhere stories live. Discover now