The Mona Lisa

May 25, 2008
By Hannah Adams, Mattawan, MI

The Mona Lisa

A beady pair of eyes darted to and fro,
eyes, cold and frightening, peering down each row.
The black pupils shrinking when encountered with the light,
a large and mysterious man slinking through the night.

A pursing of the lips, then a dark and evil smile,
lips smacking with every step each pace seeming like a mile.
I watch from my perch atop the easel of a well-known artist,
a grand and intelligent man who was obviously the smartest.

A steady beat of his heart beat rhythmically in his chest,
while he looked in the Louvre Museum for a painting more distinct than the rest.
He searched the vast galleria left and right, high and low,
examining each and every painting very carefully, nice and slow.

His hands trembled and shook at his sides,
like a restless ocean, coming and going with the tides.
My paint encrusted bristles shook frantically with fright,
I will stop him from stealing my love, with all of my might!

Grasping the Mona Lisa, he gently pulled her off the wall,
keeping an eye out for security and being sure not to let her fall.
He grabbed the gray covering and wrapped it around and around,
encasing her in smooth velvet and committing a crime without a sound.

I was pained to see the mans hands clutching my soul mate,
digging his fingers into the gray covering and carrying her past the museum gate.
“I, Leonardo Da Vinci’s paintbrush, am incredibly sorry to say,
that I could not help save my love, the Mona Lisa, on this very day.”

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