J.R.V.A.

The picture frame is empty,
waiting for the brush
the look I get from far away,
gives me such a rush.

The painting of a picture,
that I want to see,
the strokes you tell remind me of,
a way I want to be.

The story told a different way,
portrays a different image,
a day unlike another one,
the turning of a page.

I was framed the other day,
when you spoke of me,
by painting my old tales of woe,
you showed how I could be.

The art we spew as we recall,
the memorie of another,
the fire of life is burning bright,
as we run for cover.

So think when you are painting,
your pictures to a friend,
it may be thee only picture,
remembered to the end.

__________________
And as she plays,
her sweet song of laughter
floats through the air
and warms my heart