Imagining me as a muse,
You cram incarnations, abuse
The very essence of me,
Shoving those virtues nervously.
You’re sculpting me out of clay.
I am that Venus portrayed
On Botticelli’s infamous work.
You think I’m adorned with that smirk?
Draw me a witch from Salem,
Burn me, - you’re jealous with fire.
Write my imperfect portraits,
Revealing the darkest secrets,
The mystery of days long-forgotten.
You’re choked with despair, you’re broken.
When finish, you bitterly weep,
Howling painfully weak:
Rancor and malice on canvas - your creatures -
You’re crying over your own picture.
January 2013
The Portrait
© Copyright: Екатерина Скоробогач, 2013
Свидетельство о публикации №113011009942
Свидетельство о публикации №113011009942
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