Jul 4, 2007
In his basement, cylinder posts
were pile driven on her cheeks,
so that she, a Picasso blue,
could turn on the sphere lamps
every time he came in to finish her.
Never satisfied, he kept painting her
until her sight dimmed upside down.
Cones of brown split an eyebrow while
shadows crept in geometric progression
on her bottom lip-- broken lines
silencing what was once a mouth,
so he can keep her off
the market until he dies.
[this was supposed to be a rewrite of this poem but it turned out differently though]
Labels: dark, female, poetry, sad
