The woman sobs,
holding the frame in her hands.
Her head bobs,
to the rhythm of her demands.
For in the picture, they stood together,
and she never thought he would tear the lever.
But she is aware that her feelings have been spared;
she is aware that someone will actually care.
And come what may,
her heart has sprung its roots to stay.
Because a broken heart,
will, from love, never part.
Because a broken heart,
is a canvas painted by the hands of art.
As in due time, she will love again,
in this world of torture and pain.
Oh how sweet it is,
to artify a lover's woe.
How poetic it is,
to paint the friend from his foe.
YOU ARE READING
Poesy of Eloquence
Poetry❝ this tragedy is soaked with tears that dry the ink in my hands. ❞ ━ the poesy I've yearned to release ever since I taught myself to pick up the pen and write. ❝ for if the painting of my words be the garden upon the gate of heaven, glimpse them...
