The paint is cracking on the frame,
The artist lost to time and fame.
A portrait of a weeping girl,
Caught inside a tragic swirl.
I wonder what she saw that day,
To make her turn her eyes away.
A mystery locked in oils and reds,
Where art and heavy sorrow threads.
Arthur is a true bohemian poet, writing extensively about the dizzying heights of love and the crushing depths of tragic loss. His verses are deeply romantic, often employing rich metaphors involving art, wine, and the...
The water mirrors city lights,On warm and breezy summer nights.The lovers walk along the edge,And whisper softly on...
The gold is flaking from the wood,Where once a royal portrait stood.The canvas now is blank and bare,Inside...