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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.
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