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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 what he feels.
He never uses color,
He sketches in charcoal.
I stand up and walk into the room,
I stand by his shoulder, eager.
I recognize it, but I do not know why.
Shadows dominate the room,
It is a mother, holding her child.
But she’s crying, and her clothes are torn.
Then I realize,
It’s my dream.