The image of the painting whispered with ease into my heart,
Sweet words that made no sense into my ears.
I stood motionless, glancing at every facet of what,
Seemed like a painting of love captured by the hands
Of a painter that knew not love.
The love of the painting colored the heart of the painter,
Giving her the wisdom and freedom to love prodigiously,
Filling her soul with astute.
But yet still, the painter knew not love.
