Drawing had always come easy to her
She did it in the face of others, in spite of others, to mimic the others, to capture the others,
But then again,
she did it for herself
Scores of pencils existing on borrowed time
withering away with a lifelessness that seemed nearly impossible
The floor in her bedroom had become a depressing gallery of the incomplete
A landscape with an unfinished tree
a bowl of fruit without so much as a pear
because pears were much more difficult to sketch than anyone would have imagined
And on the front end of a Friday
in a moment of deep solitude
she saw a familiar face
So she rowed a boat
a blue boat with a small red anchor on the side
and she rowed it far and away
into the sunset
where she found sleep at last
If he could use a purple crayon
she could certainly do something with a pencil or two
with the charcoal and a stool
Here
under the light of the Moon
she would right all the wrongs
come back inside the lines and find the great life imitating art
or was it the other way around?
Taking her cues from Narcissus
and the great mind behind the triple self portrait
And like that
she would take the reins and draw herself
right out of the picture
Very sad!!!!!!!!
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