She is slumped before her easel.
Paint streaked arms twitch in troubled sleep.
One hand stirs in her lap,
like a brush upon a palette.
Laquered fingertips drawn to the heat of creation.
She dreams of the Mona Lisa,
and of Venus de Milo,
of landing upon the hot surface of Mars
wearing only a Freudian slip,
of kicking sandcastles
whose towers thrust at burning sky.
The dream shifts.
She moans as a memory returns.
Faceless bully smashes precious doll
amid shouts of laughter.
Laughter absorbed
like paint upon canvas.
She stirs herself awake,
shakes sleep from tired arms.
Haunted by the pains of her past,
like every artist, she stretches
to apply fresh visions
only her canvas understands.
c) C. Butler 1998
