Upon thy broken and velvet back,
There is a tiny frailness,
A little bird without wings,
It sits, while I sit, and I paint,
To see what I’ve always envisioned,
A woman with eyes like onyx stones
Within a lake of sapphire,
And a face of pure porcelain,
Dotted with freckles like leaves in another lake
Of immaculate white milk.
But, the bird atop your back,
Has no wings.
It attempts to flap mere stubs,
And cannot fly.
What freedom does it possess?
Is it your pet?
Is it your child?
The poor frailty
Of that little bird,
Causes my tears to be my paint.
I drain blue to the canvas,
And turn what is painted to be a white back,
To a blue one.
And to yourself, I reach my head,
When I lean forward after I’ve raised
Myself, from this horrid chair.
And I lay a kiss,
Upon not you,
But that bird.
Your face appears startled, a vision of fear,
A vision of confusion,
Love is in my eyes,
Not for the one I’ve painted,
But the one I’ve pained for,
My love, my beauty with eyes of green,
Who do I love? Who have I seen?
We have been lovers a long while,
But, that bird! That bird!