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A canvas rotting on the floor
has colours dying under molds,
a draft is moving the green door
as in the room a tale unfolds.
 
The artist left, is dead maybe
and his work, unloved by time, dies
more and more each day. We see
the painted tears, caresses, lies.
 
There’s some lingering lingerie
made out of fabrics that won’t rot.
Once they belonged to his Cherie
who considered him her own god.
 
He choose the bottle over her
which made her leave, she was crying
on the way to the station where
all she could think of was dying.
 
She jumped in front of the train then,
there at the Gare du Nord it was.
He never touched the wine again
and disappeared in his last glass.
 
Since he was never back in town,
the room turned into a morgue of
his work, with canvas falling down,
becoming the tomb of his love.
 
© Ina Schroders-Zeeders 2012
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