Studying the painting
that is on the wall,
hanging precariously,
I’m afraid it might fall.
Dust lies caked on
the top of the frame
while a smudge on
the canvas obscures
the artist’s name.
It has hung untouched
for a very long time
there is no one alive
who remembers it in its prime.
The painting captures
the sad face of
a beautiful woman,
I wonder was she
in love with the artist
but bestowed
to another man.
Or could it be
his mother as he
imagined her
long after she had died
when her memory
was just a blur.
The truth will forever
remain a mystery,
like the artist’s name
it has been consigned to history.
