It brought her to her knees,
splashed cold black paint on her smooth frame,
it did not change her heart…
she didn’t mind its cruelty,
didn’t mind the stains,
couldn’t care less for her figure,
it did not change her heart…
only when whispers grew louder it stung deep,
swayed her own faculties,
taught her distrust,
it did not change her heart…
the image from his eyes broke her,
all it took was an undeserving painter,
one eager to narrate at no cost,
promptly colour,
on the dot wounding her soul.
it did not change her heart.
