A Models Likeness

A bruised heart scorned, sacred vows of a saint, sorrows of unrequited lovers—art is what you paint—I Am Anaya A Models Likeness Hues of magentas and white acrylic silky spells Vibrant colors mixed from his palette he evokes Swept over again ‘til emerging shades of eggshells He has an ability to convey a sense of deep melancholy and yearning in much of his work Thus, the reason she chose him furiously, at first for whatever it took to capture her in what she is to atone for, her fate to be. With bated breath the artist brushes swirling strokes A finished background, now ready for her face sedate A statuesque quality she provokes More lugubrious than usual, she tells him she sat up late worrying her fiancé be held up on the way The model has been helpful he thought to himself although she stood very still for him, all day. He paints her salient gown next, her pose engaged Her smile feigned, lips swollen red, from biting he detects A glance of an earlier sketch traced of her enraged He hides it while diluting color to match her pale skin Languid and weak holding back her tears, she summons him to begin again. Her inner likeness fails to appear, still he proceeds Rest and ease your mind What do you hear? The renowned realist artist pleads Think of times when life was kind She protests it is no use, tells him to let it be, He agrees, lifting his brush and with its pointy end, he then turns her head slightly, thirty degrees Back to the canvas a figure now transcends. A husband’s absent journey down the aisle leaves her alone but with a phantom kiss A soul rendered vacant from callous guile A portrait of doom gazing into an abyss What would’ve shown through paint; pain and sorrows The artist knows what needs to be done, none the less Lest what may have been in the lover’s tomorrows, ‘twas the painter's blissful ode to her wedding dress.