The Perfectionist

He painted the ribbons

Falling from her head,

He painted jade jewels

Amongst her face.

He cried when she moved,

Or if a bow was out of place.

They spent hours alone;

He let no-one see her,

And she had to stay

Still whilst he tried to freeze her.

He painted her joints,

And those lines of grace,

His brush caressed curls

Into place.

If her shape was an apple,

He changed it to hourglass;

He drew blades if

Her wit was lacking;

His eyes, seeing repulse,

Also saw beauty in its place.

When the ladies walked off,

He was left along

With his image all done

By his side.

But, painted with a frown,

He sat himself down,

Proceeded to change black

Into brown.

He needed not her there,

But only his vision;

He needed only his inner eye.

How the beautiful fall;

With a flick of the wrist,

Her curves were most prominent.

The End

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