I was in the art museum today,
when I saw the Little Picture Painted Well
abandoned, alone, on the sole, dim wall.
Oh! Lone Painting on dark, despondent wall!
Its canvas proclaims immense love,
for It hangs there in glorified
pain; Its only gift: a broken, gold frame, and
hung there only so ruined paintings might
never hang there, ever, at all.
…
But whatever rejected second it
shall endure, or on whatever dark divide It may die,
Its wet paint still glistens crimson; and with
this warm, deadly kiss, I began to see
the callous joke, the irony, and yet,
the Truth: It’s really hanging on the Light.
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Copyright of Jessica Anne McLean, 2007, 2009 all rights reserved.
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Author’s note: This is a revised version of the orginal, which, in counting the syllables, shows my naivity as an author, because it wasn’t really a sonnet at all. Good grief. 😉
The Rose 
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