Brushstrokes, like small, sweet caresses,
Form my borrowed features.
Two dark dimples beneath my brow
Grant me sight and for the first time
I see Him.
Eyes like emeralds, furrowed in concentration,
Trying in vain to capture Perfection.
But Perfection, she is an unachievable whisper,
A tantalizing, treacherous promise,
And Perfection will not be borne of an Imperfect subject.
He is an artist, though, and will not accept this.
I do not understand this desire for Perfection,
But I am not made for such things, I suppose.
My Beautiful Maker is then replaced by My Original,
She stares at me with a critical eye,
Deciding what to make of Her copied image.
I return Her harsh gaze. Why shouldn't I?
I am, after all, an extension of She,
A branch to Her tree.
Finally, She uncrosses her strong arms.
She is pleased, He has done well.
Once She is gone, He continues to stare,
As they all will. It is my purpose.
For an empty, well crafted face is only
Good for temporal admiration.
Can stolen goods ever be true creation?
He comes to a resolve, picks up His Mighty Instrument,
And with a gentle sweep of his delicate fingers
He gives me something to call my own.
The left corner of my mouth is now upturned, ever so slightly.
Just a bit, just enough,
Enough to discern Me from Her.
He returns The Smile.
In His image I am created.
I am Mona, He tells me,
His Mona.