The Woman with the Violin
The painting's old and weather-worn beyond a time
I'd never know, and dust-lined
and bold. But still it's crude
how the oil paint collides with aging lines in an age-old taboo.
And daring me to find
a part too daring in something named divine,
and vivid in it's truth or steadfast with its lies.
A shameless sharing of life
that spreads a reality in color-sewn light
that's told her she's promiscuos, she's been kept in strife
to the old shadows of the night.
But here she is after all this time, a smile for all as she takes flight
unchanged. She's not aged
with the passage of judgement, and unshamed.
She stands erect, bare-chested and sure of her right
to be what she is. A woman that lived
with her quiet resistance. She lived to give
her quiet echo through the distance.
And now her pride could match a man's,
as she bears her breast and strokes her violin.