My Artist

Abstract art falls apart beneath a dying flame,
Across the sea she's gone to flee, her painting is ablaze,
I wouldn't doubt she'll be out in this smoky haze
of this fire spreading up, around,
Burning down! Make a sound!
Perhaps art can be saved.

It started by the sea--poor me--when I sketched her face.
She made a slave of ocean wave, bound water with wet paint.
I wished to see she could love me, dreams of close embrace...
but now I stand here at the docks,
Feet in locks, heart in shock!
"It is her!" my heart raved.

At a feast a masterpiece is proudly shown of he--
A mighty god, a golden rod--is how she portrayed me,
And in a chair I saw her there, eyes on her art and I.
I wished to touch her pretty face,
Thin black lace. Passion's grace.
She has no love, but stone.

So many things and diamond rings were never said or shown,
A broken heart's her final art; I should have always known
For all she cared I was not spared, the pain now in my bone.
She said she'd tear my feelings out,
Hearts were clout, I had doubt!
And now I'm all alone.