Pastels

Weird Poetry

He holds his pastel,

Delicately pinched

Between calloused thumb, middle and forefinger,

And rubs it into the paper,

Toiling to capture

Her pain,

Her beauty —

The second pronounced

Because of the first.

She was his seventh subject

That year

Alone.

What you cannot see

From her portrait

Is the source of her pain

[He added in some shading of his own]

That intensified her beauty,

That intensified the colours

He specially selected

For the curated display of her suffering —

Like a broken masterpiece.

Upon completion,

He tosses her aside

Into a cemetery of spent pastel nubs,

And can now use his harrowing composition

To attract his next subject.

~~~

👽❤

~~~

2 thoughts on “Pastels

Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.