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Violent red; murky brown; sooty black; pallet of her choice:
The world is dark, for dearest Frida,
And life is the depth of regret, hatred, sorrow--
The crushing oblivion--
She feels in her heart.
Bound by myriads of excruciating pain, numbness, rage, dearest Frida begins to paint
A world of lost dreams, nightmares, daymares.
Her life spinning in a world of death.
A world of imperfection.
Crashes, dying child, pain severing the connection with reality
A reality not harsh enough for dearest Frida.
The suffering unceasing, falling, smashing
As her child wanders away. Forever gone.
Youth, a concept lost forever in the violent accident of a mere hour, nay, minute;
Love, a time felt trick on the soul of dearest Frida
Who yearns, but never reaches, knowing there is no use.
Poor, dearest Frida.