Olive skin and White paintings

Only the sands of time could tell her story, 

but here I will attempt to try. 

Her skin was tinted in Olive fashion and her hair twirled

round and round – 

Like two lovers dancing. 

She stood out from the rest, as was her belief, 

Yet so did the White Painting in this strange man’s keep. 

It told of the stars, the cosmos, and the winners with luck. 

It told of death and love and the church bells that struck. 

For the piece caught her eyes and she couldn’t help but resist – 

Yet soon she thought of herself and the strange man that kissed. 

For in her the man saw: joy and pain, 

gain and loss, wicked and sane. 

He saw mere hints of olive tints ‘round her eyes golden rare. 

He stared because she was different – and different, she was. 

For his crooked eyes watched and his crooked hands touched. 

And just like White Paintings his hands left a mark – 

Not one of light, but one of dark. 

And as they took advantage she felt guilt and shame,

She felt cold and bliss – and her mind, deranged. 

Yet just like the White Painting 

There was still much to tell,

She still had the courage to try and the strength to prevail. 

She turned her back to the painting – 

And glanced at the man, 

Who used her body and touched with his hands. 

For she would have it no longer and idly stand. 

Her golden eyes glared with glass dagger in hand 

She walked toward with purpose and watched as he breathed. 

For he would breathe his last breath 

of life

Indeed. 

She lifted up the glass dagger and strike as she must, 

His blood tainted the sheets,

Her skin, 

And the White Painting she loved.

He shrieked in the moment and his echoes sang through the room.

For he could not believe that the girl he loved, 

That the girl who dared – 

Took his life in cold blood

And led his despair.