Prison

He called her perfect,
Thinking to make a gift of his adoration,
not knowing what a tight prison that word can become.
The smitten lover,
painting his love in the glow of his own imaginings
His fantasies brought to life
Warm and breathing.
But that paint hardens so quickly,
The colors of his illusions freezing her motion,
her words.
her being.
Were she to move,
Her gestures could not follow his fantasy’s pattern
for her movements can never match his dreams,
her expressions being her own.
Her thoughts and phrases,
compared to such an impossible measure
can do nothing but be found lacking,
as her lips speak from her heart,
and no one else’s.
That other woman was dreamt from a simple template,
more a reflection of his own wants,
a ghost of old hurts and new desires,
the futile dress that will never see flesh.
A garment he has draped her in
with his thoughts.
She sees it in his eyes,
the love for someone that does not exist
except, perhaps, within himself.
The quick shadow of disappointment
when her banter wanders from the script.
And so she measures,
Knowing that her movements will betray his delusion,
Realizing that to stay fixed will betray her reality.

About The Sterling LIne

Where does art end and life begin? I don't really see a distinction, but I try to consciously live each moment with enthusiasm, following inspiration where it leads, being open to possibilities and exploring the boundaries of myself, the world I live in and those I meet. Though I attempt to tread softly and respectfully, I often get clumsy, carried away with enthusiasm ... Woman, artist, force of nature and mother... Lives in the SF Bay Area.
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