An Impressionistic Piece

Alone in my own private spectrum, Sadness consumes me. Anguish, sorrow, bitterness, It's all there. Creating shadow. No one can see behind my painted facade. It's amazing. Bewildering. But I'm thankful for the deceptive pastels. They cover me. Protect me. Without them, I harbor no intriguing color. No charming landscape. No delightful perspective. The underlying colors are vivid and deep. They define me. My canvas absorbs them greedily. I'm an ever changing portrait, If one but looks. For a brief, beautiful moment, Another artist stopped, and gazed appreciatively upon my vivid depths. I was an art of his interpretation. I was a beautiful masterpiece. He focused kindly on every graceful line. Until he found fault. And, as he moved on, My appreciation in my contrast diminished. Now, I'm just a picture without dimension. The brief light fading my pastels. Alone in my own private spectrum, Where sadness consumes me, and my colors bleed.