A poem.read more
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.