Description
From the perspective of Poe as a painter. His love for a woman who he desired to hold through a timeless image and captured within brushstrokes that ages her soul within the paint. Two images reside in the painting. One a younger woman aware of artist and viewer. The other, the same woman older and closer to the end, aware of something beyond her vision. The duality of the same soul trapped forever in an aging process.
A vision fair, a fleeting spark,
My love, my muse, upon the stair.
Her eyes, twin pools that held the dark,
Entranced me, held me in their snare.
To capture her, a burning quest,
Each stroke a vow, a whispered prayer.
Her form I traced, her beauty blessed,
Yet something faded in the air.
The brush, a lover's ardent hold,
To keep her essence ever near.
But as the likeness did unfold,
A chilling truth, both stark and clear.
Her laughter dimmed, her eyes grew dim,
The lifeblood drained from her sweet face.
The canvas grew, a morbid hymn,
A masterpiece, a haunting space.
For art, a jealous, cruel desire,
Consumed the flame it sought to hold.
Now only echoes of her fire,
Remain within the frame, so cold.
I stand, a sculptor of despair,
My love, a canvas, pale and wan.
The price of passion, etched with care,
A portrait perfect, yet outrun.