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Art
The blank canvas stares back at her, it's a mirror.
Would she be that innocent fool to add a little color?
She places a finger against her reflection, it stains.
She beggs forgiveness from herself as it shatters.
Lifting it, her crimson hands become the frame.
The same tears on her reflection, falling as colors.
The artist has absolutely no control over her art.
She closes her eyes, picturing the canvas, she stands.
Touching the mirror once again she's terrified.
Opening her eyes, mesmerized by her talent.
Caressing her reflection, the cracks now golden strokes.
She whispers compliments to herself varnishing it.
She is art💙
© yudia
Would she be that innocent fool to add a little color?
She places a finger against her reflection, it stains.
She beggs forgiveness from herself as it shatters.
Lifting it, her crimson hands become the frame.
The same tears on her reflection, falling as colors.
The artist has absolutely no control over her art.
She closes her eyes, picturing the canvas, she stands.
Touching the mirror once again she's terrified.
Opening her eyes, mesmerized by her talent.
Caressing her reflection, the cracks now golden strokes.
She whispers compliments to herself varnishing it.
She is art💙
© yudia
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