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.