The Artist

Things were going to change for ever, 

But she didn't know, 

Because she wasn't clever. 

A happy morning it was as it seemed,

"Give me a cup of coffee, please"

She ordered out loud. 

Her voice was her pride, 

And her forever career guide.

The wall hanging was looking pretty ,

That morning, 

With its projecting parts, 

Adding to its beauty. 

Made by the voice lover, 

It was the beautified microphone's cover.

Slipped her feet over the floor, 

Hit the wall, 

And fell, 

Fell with cover, 

Cover of Blood. 

Her beloved creation, 

Became the cause,

Of her losing her very own beloved passion, 

The proud voice owner, 

Lost her pride forever.

The growing artist's way to passion was dead, 

The reason for being there wasn't. 

The artist was dying, 

The art wasn't. 

It changed its shape and form, 

And took a new way, 

To a new name, 

And a new destination. 

The dream of being an Orator, 

Had to change itself in being a Painter, 

The dream to speak out and give love the words of expression , 

Took it's way to come out on the canvas,

And take away the artist's depression.

The orator didn't die, 

She was alive, 

She drew and wrote, 

She never spoke, 

Her art did it for her, 

Her words shouted, 

Her colours portrayed the emotions, 

The brushes conversed with canvas, 

The pen loved the paper. 

Never recognized, 

She died, 

The soul left the room of passion and art.

Next morning, 

The corpse was comforted to the burial ground, 

The fingers didn't caressed the pen and the brush anymore, 

The eyes didn't match the colours anymore.

The locks of the lady on the canvas, 

Was done, 

The poem written for her was crafted well, 

The pen again directed, 

And the colours again spoke, 

The unsaid, 

unrequited and unrecognized love.

The lady left the artist, 

Years ago, 

The portrait of the lady ,

And the unread words of the poem remained.

The poet died, 

Poetry didn't, 

The artist died, 

Art didn't, 

The lover died, 

And love lived. 

- Anonymous, 18.11.2020