The Painter

Paint your pretty pictures, child.

There once was a girl

She loved to paint.

With wishes, with hopes,

With tears,

and regret.

Her paintings were glory,

sights for sore eyes,

But nobody knew

she was dying inside.

She painted pretty pictures

that no one could see,

On a canvas of gold

that would never be.

But we're mortal, my child,

Oh, didn't you know?

And soon the painter

began to reap what she sowed.

Her paintings, born from sorrow,

from loss,

and regret,

began to diminish her, and she became... less.

So listen, dear child, just listen to what I say,

The painter's pretty pictures

died with her that day.