A portrait of love

 

She thought she’d found an exotic bird,

All past disappointments blurred,

Love adopted a new word,

Joyfully her female self stirred,

But alas he turned out to be a nerd

deeply absorbed in black and white;

carried just a quite light,

It was no rainbow bright,

The prince of her dreams out of sight,

Again a restless night

after that free float and frolicking flight,

Vanished that fresh delight

when arrived the repackaged love,

The bruised self coming to life with fresh shove,

It was but the same hand

in a different glove.

 

There she stood with her broken dreams,

Shorn of newfound themes,

Trashed were all schemes,

Dry went the ripply streams.

 

Back to the same self,

Again the same painful yelp.

 

But was it his fault

if her feminine fancy hit the vault

and soul absorbed in new exalt?

Fault wasn’t on his part,

Like hers it was similar heart

passionate about some art,

But looking for a new start

she assumed him to be high, apart

and extremely smart.

He was just the same,

Like anyone for blame

or simple, common acclaim,

But the unmet dreams in her eyes

filled up the colors of fame

in his empty and simple canvas.

 

He was just a creation of her own,

A normal man put on illustrious throne,

He was no king

to whom her creation could cling

and joyfully sing

the ever-fresh love song,

And before long

she realized something was wrong

because missing was heart’s gong,

She saw the reality with sad eyes

and read many lies

that her colorful dreams had told,--

As gold stones were sold.

 

Whose fault is this?

Whom to blame for the miss?

Who couldn’t sustain the bliss

of the fresh love’s kiss?

Is it the man for being the cast

spread where her dreams vast?

Is it the woman who cast colors her own

with her spirit all excitedly flown?