The painted picture on my canvas,
is ladened with faults.
The curve in the skilled frame is without blemish.
But the painted picture is ladened with faults.
Is it in the perfect silk of the painted hair,
that glares and broods grace.
Or in the smooth of the skin,
or even in the hips that is tilted too nice.
The painted picture is with faults though.
The eyes that look, beholds a faulty perfection,
the hands that painted,
made a faultless perfection.
Can you see the canvas?
How deeply have you looked?
The painted picture is perfect,
but there is a hole present,
where the heart should have been.
Beauty is nothing without a heart that compliments.