Quivering faintly was her soul
like a candle in the breeze;
too weak to burn, too proud to die.

She had given away her heart
to a certain smile, a certain gait;
love’s fluid colours, on the wrong palette.

Yet, at the break of dawn, she set out
easel and paint, love and heart;
to paint her passion on borrowed canvas.

The colours they swirled, her limbs trembled
the sun had set, the canvas remained;
for he, her love, knew not her love’s art.

He never did.

Years hence, she returned to the very sunset,
and wondered about her canvas, her love’s offering;
and was glad her love was never fulfilled.

For the colours had changed, the painting too
her soul, the candle, was now a flame;
Unmoved by shallow dreams, it burned, an eternal glow.


4 thoughts on “Desire

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