Painting thrown away

You started framing me.
It was a nice wooden frame,
beautifully carved patterns,
flowers twined with leaves,
varnished with a darker tinge,
sprinkled with soft silver.

I was a canvas but blank.
You had pictured me,
how you would paint me,
where the river would flow,
what colours daises spurt,
and hills afar kiss the sky.

Then I was tested on frame.
The glass was fixed firm,
slipped me behind them,
widowed me with no colours
reflected by the glass pane,
yet the eyes assuring to me.

Finally I was put on board.
I was clipped on all edges,
submitting to his dedication,
stroked me for many days,
with different hues and brushes,
until I was coated all over.

I was packed into the frame.
My colors were on the glass,
many a artist visited me,
some adjusting their glasses,
touching the frame (but not me),
few also philosophizing me.

I stayed for days on the wall.
Loved by all and respected,
wallowing in my beauty,
when many friends were gone.
He would come too and stare
- something achieved in me.

Then I was abandoned.
I parted with the wall,
excited where to I head now,
but ripping I was thrown,
edges of the frame cleaned,
abandoning me on the floor.


"Good writing takes more than just time; it wants your best moments and the best of you."