She hides, disguised, behind desire’s silhouette,
so lost within her passion’s seeping reds,
between ambitious lines, not fully set
and daylight streaking of emotional treads.
New shades replace the old as time goes by,
she loses tolerance with every stroke,
within the canvas paint is doomed to slowly die,
love bleeding, soaks on top of lonely oaks,
but hues of winter camouflage her face
and pastel smiles fade from porcelain cheeks.
Despite attempts to fool with quiet grace
her art remains so colorless and bleak.
She’s hung on walls, passed by people every day.
She knows she’s invisible, she likes it that way.