Opus

The canvas is her earth,
the colors her oceans,
the paintbrush her sail,
the water her speed.

Night and day alternates
with the light and shadows.

Terrain crumbles,
only to be smeared with another layer
to mantle the cracks.
A layer of a strange color.
A meld, an illusion.

That dye,
blended by the fusion
of tar-like coal black,
cerulean like the pacing, pompous shores,
and pink like the corals upon her nape,
is a color she streaks
only when she needs to veil
the crevices of her porcelain heart.

It is a color that cannot be seen,
but felt with time.

It is beautiful,
but ugly in its elements.

Do you know why she never paints your face?
It’s because she loathes monotone.