Here
we are, yet again in proximity
all
braced up for a grand enterprise
A
word picture awaits a final portrait of yours,
to
capture the one who I insanely prized.
An
only plea, just be yourself
this
image has to mirror the real you.
No
put-on, no facade, no assumed countenance
'a
mere smile', begs this amateur artist and nothing new.
A
fantastic and collegial setting
despite
the past clash.
Don't
we still strike the right chord
holding
an appropriate measure of dash.
You
look nice with that frown
with
your raised eyebrow.
Should
I repeat this portrait goes to me
and
no other woman gets to say a 'wow'.
I
mean, why let a look go futile
when
everything you do has an angle.
After
all we all adore your artful maneuvers
and
know it when your eyes spangle.
It
seems so facile to paint you now
when
time left you no whit of shame.
It's
just you, a stark lie
my
hands yet sense the old flame.
My
painting brush looks grief-stricken
unable
to hide your ersatz virility.
Wish
my loving words redeem the lost honor
and
remind you of my affection infinity.
And
so it ends, with you beaming so large
with
three long years culminating into an unbecoming image.
Your
love never soared high like Invictus,
it
just got lost in the maze.
Now
whenever I'll behold this portrait
I
shall always be reminded
of
lost humanity, divestment of a sham,
dearth
of emotions and an affair sordid.
