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The Portrait

The prosaic strokes of her brush made her see
The truth she had been trying to bury.
"I can paint anything, Jim, but you," she whispered.
"I have spent too much time trying to paint your eyes,
While the real ones watched me from a distance.
And like the end of an evanescing dream you faded
And became the white of this canvas I cannot fill.
Death, like you said, is just another colour from my box.
Tell me, why can't my brush find your face?
Have I buried the scent of your love too deep
Under the stench of my paints?
Will this empty canvas never show me your face
And calm the storms in my sundry selves?
Give me the strength, Jim, to face you again;
To look you in the eye and ask if the sun
Shines bright on the other side. Help me find
The colour of death in my box, so that
You can see me, once again, as I paint you."

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