the painting

The Painting

A painting of a lady, one among

The others pinned to the wall

Encased, trapped in glass, frames of

Old oak and silver around them all

And I, a lad, a young poet

Finding ways to while away

Boring hours of a summer holiday

While others of my age would work and play

I sit and think about all day

To find something for my eager quill

Stained with the ink of my thoughts that spill

And found this picture, among the rest

Wondered why, I found it the best

Her hair had the flow of a river, disturbed

And in such mayhem, but a lock

So pale, might have cared less to paint

And yet had the radiant glow

Blazed like the golden sphere of the sky

But, caught me, those dark eyes

Of the lifeless, still Aphrodite

Caused the blood in my heart to rush

Feel it was more than strokes of brush

And then, there was life in every line

Touched the beating heart of mine

“Time’s up!” said the guard

And the illusion shattered hard

I looked back for a last glance, to the wall

At the painted lady on a piece of card