A poem.

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The Portrait

He forbids me from the room,

I imagine its beauty.

He does not draw often,

He claims he draws how he feels.

He never uses color,

His sketches are in charcoal.

I stand up to walk into his room,

I stand by his shoulder, eager.

I recognize it, but I don’t know why.

It is a mother, holding her child.

But she’s crying her clothes are torn.

Then I realize,

It’s a dream.