The Painter

There are two sides to every story. One side tends to be silent and the other more obvious like a painter and a painting. But when that normally silent side is given a voice, what would be said?

I can see myself
In the reflection of his glasses,
That's because he was kind enough
To give me my eyes first,

What grace is held in his movements,
I study his contemplation,
My creator,

My form feels heavier,
I can see arms and legs
In the reflection,

There,
Something nestled
Between my fingers,

A flower,
His mind forms the delicate petals,
As a daisy blooms within my grasp,

And what a lovely dress he has given me,
As he paints the wind within the scene,
I can feel it kissing my skin,

I am blonde,
Wait no,
Brunette,

My eyes are blue,
But with another thought,
They are a radiant green,

But what of my heart?
I watch my creator work,
With a smudge of paint,
The color of my dress,
On his cheek,
His eyes tell me of his defeat,

He has yet to give me a soul,
I am merely a shell of beauty,
An image in his mind
He has hoped to give life,
But no sound
Comes from my chest,

And because of that,
I was given a sad smile,
One that held appreciation
For existence,
But the longing to be free
From a prison made of canvas,

He stands back,
And my own smile
Is echoed on his expression,
But in his eyes
I can see that he loves me,
I know I mean something,

So I will continue to smile
In my cage-like frame,
Because my creator
Made me with his heart,
He gave me a part of his soul
So that I may see,

See that it is not my own heart
I am meant to have,
My own soul
Is not what matters,
But I am to be a mirror,
A disguised reflection,

Because within my eyes,
Within my smile,
Lies a soul yearning to be seen,
A heart yearning to love,
Hiding within me
Is the spirit of the painter.