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Poem
There is a picture of you on my bedroom wall
Drawn by my own simpering hand
Of your divine features and veiled Oriental eyes
Scratched out by the crude tool of a 2B pencil
Alas I had no mosaic tiles, nor a sculptor’s clay
Else I might have made of you a Leonardo da Vinci portrait  
But as I am no artist so is this no masterpiece
But merely another means by which to profess
My bounteous insatiable love for you
And all your moods and manifestations
Into this simple rendering I poured my heart and soul
Sealing my desire on a frail scrap of A3 paper
You would scoff at it
So accustomed are you to the incomparable beauty of 
Your living face
But it was the best I could do once you withdrew from my life
Once your face became something out of bounds
A God-sculpted artwork I could no longer stroke
Or trace with the tender tips of my passionate fingers
It is all I have left of you that I can touch
And my accuracy was sorely tested – but I tried
Oh how I tried
In this humble picture I strove to capture your chiselled cheekbones
I copied your masterful brows
Your narrow forehead
Your hair is full and flowing as in life
And, as in life, so your charcoal and paper gaze shifts to the side
Evading the eyes of its admirer – me –
Dodging the possibility of encountering my wide-open
Windows to my soul
And the vast reservoir of love that brims to the surface
Threatening to spill through my pupils and drown you
As in life so in my depiction you are aloof
Yes my love I maintained that barrier you erected
I sketched it in invisible ink over your supple lips
Your pupils, black as pitch
The shadowed hollows beneath your cheekbones
I remained faithful to the truth of you
And what you have become
As every artist tries to stay loyal to his model’s essence
The lifeblood of his muse
So I have not created a false illusion of softness
I did not add warmth to your Adonis facade
Did not lend pliability to your stern mouth
But kept you as solemn and withdrawn as 
The stunted soulless beauty you are
My empty vessel of ebony and crystal
My shining icy star...
My muse, devoid of love and hope as you are
So I have portrayed you, to prove my devotion
To prove that my love may overlook all that you lack
And still your portrait may be positioned in pride of place
So that I may admire your hollow loveliness
And give a melancholy sigh for what might have been...
If only you were not just a picture
A flat one-dimensional etching on the gaudy canvas of my life...
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