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


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

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