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On morning one when sunlight spoke |
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an unfamiliar place i woke |
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and my arms and limbs, all lines so faint |
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crudely sketched in paint |
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red, blood red, wall overhead |
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this work of art, this lover's bed |
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his pictures hung; the splattered marks |
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as the curator, she starts... |
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"oh him? he was sweet. |
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now he's layers underneath. |
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our ink is forever." |
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she lied through her teeth. |
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painted over |
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painted over |
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painted over |
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love it grew from a simple crush |
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as colors saturate the brush |
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blue for honor and gold for the truth |
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the artist's final touch |
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time, gray time, it warped shapes |
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The canvas frayed and the work replaced |
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painted over, now all i see is |
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an envious shade of green |
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and now she hears me, |
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from layers underneath, |
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from cracks in the paint; |
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the voice while she sleeps |
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painted over |
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painted over |
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painted over |
