My Mona Lisa
I've painted a portrait of you
Stroked in a thousand shades of grey.
It sits above my fireplace
And weighs down my walls
With trivial details and scraps of insignificance.
And as I gaze at that familiar face,
It grows more beautiful and strange
As the daytime turns to dusk
And the seasons start to change.
As does my memory with it,
As I look up at that ode upon my wall I swear
That I painted that in colour.
In blood red, electric blue and Aztec gold
That's faded now to the point
I'd almost swear it isn't you.
Yet it is!
And as it turns to night and artificial light
It's undeniably true.
Yet somehow distant to me now.
Portrait has become landscape,
Still life has become impression.
And I'm just guessing that there's a way to go yet,
That some where within those brush strokes
There's a Mona Lisa smile
That will end up in a gallery
Where the folks queue single file,
And wonder how it could've been painted
By anyone other than a lover with unrelenting sight.
God! If only everything could be so black and white.