Portrait Of A Statue

When a woman tarries 'forth a mirror, seeing ugly,

it matters not how oft the others say she's fine,

- as in normal, plain, or special china-ware -

or if they laud her beauty with poetic flare,

it's not them that worries, 'neath those twisted eyes,

those orbs of dragon sight that watch her smugly,

nor them that wears the milk of age on skin of wine,

yet they judge her posture, shape, and size.

She ponders which judge true, and which with lies,

and wonders more upon each haughty glare,

and turns to asks her artist, "what make you of me?"

only then to find that he's not there.

"Then who imbues with life this stone of mine?"

the thought of asking strikes, and breaks her spine,

and from the question she forever flies,

wanting not an answer, hard,

or softly.

The artist watches as his best work withers,

in a cage of pride stronger than stone,

he knows the fault in asking only "of me",

as if what we are is all our own.

He rides the wilting wind that in him burns,

molten soul poured out as ink and paint,

and chisels at the statue's turns,

and mourns the loss with eyes of gapless rain.

Because the dragon's gaze, of course, was hers.

But the portrait's every fault is the painter's.