Crimson Regrets

November 4, 2008
By Alia Haig, Greeley, PA

The perfect plot; the perfect light,
She had her portrait done in the midst of night,
Her hair was a mess, quickly pinned up,
I didn’t ask questions, my brush dipped into the nearest cup.

Smudges of red here and there,
Shivers rose in my spine as I copied her cold stare,
I couldn’t tell whose blood it truly was,
Jealousy and anger was its only cause.

I splattered red paint across the gloomy canvas,
Who knew it would come to this,
My shaking hand made her face disfigured,
Afraid of her displeasure I quivered.

Her murderous shadow cast upon the wall,
She wore too much, thus removed her shall,
Oh, the horror of seeing her killer arms revealed,
I stayed alert, ready to use anything as a shield.

I hurried to finish; afraid to lengthen her stay,
Turning the canvas; I feared what she would say,
‘Your work is done, now join the rest’, she cried,
I saw my crimson regrets splatter the painting and died.

The author's comments:
This was an assignment for Creative Writing Class. We were shown a few famous paintings and had to write a poem about it. This was a painting by Pablo Picasso called "the sitting woman". I wrote as if i was the painter and what i though happened, no, i didn't think of the painter as picasso.

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