sitters ( i loved the thorns more than the rose)
I have quite the ancient envy towards sitters,
To sit there and look pretty as a lotus,
Floating through the words of the painter,
I deeply envy that chair.
To be drawn so scrupulously and devotedly,
With every subtle fine detail brushed over and over again,
Till the canvas breaks into perfection,
I envy it with my whole heart on my sleeve.
To sit there knowing you are the finest creation the mortals will ever lay their eyes on–
Museums and roads,
A muse, a sculpted muse of a fame thriving painter,
No other earthly bliss will touch this sky-high.
To be called “pretty” a million times as the sun sets and rises,
Isn’t it all too above the well to just sit and be praised,
Thousand eyes roaming around as you stay still on a wall,
How mortifying!!.
But beauty is a language embraced in empty words,
Thoughts, bright thoughts,
Beauty speaks more and above.
For a reason I envied them,
But never would on a fine dream sit there,
For I valued my thoughts more than my beauty,
I loved the thorns more than the rose.
