Before the mirror with crossed legs sat you,
th'look of your passion smeared across your face,
repainting on a canvas with soft blue -
a hue of blue that did your soft eyes trace;
and then, you put a mask of fairer paint
all over that which was already fair.
But are you beautiful beneath your quaint
blue-shaded eyes and neatly tied-up hair,
for oft such artistry does not display
the anxiousness and rawness of the soul
you do possess, nor th'baseness you portray
in utter brilliance that I'd fain t'extol;
to see you at your worst is at your best. -
With this my love for you is now confessed.
10/12/15
Poet's Notes
The past few months have brought me on an emotional journey filled with laughter, sweat, stress and heartbreak. I had spent countless hours interacting with people I have never met before, characters of interesting natures and behaviours. But one of them stood out among the rest, in my eyes, as she was the most curious of all. Despite being soft-spoken and shy, Brenda had always been the one to bring a smile to my face whenever I was feeling particularly upset. She always had galaxy of mysteries in her eyes as she sat, saying naught, in the ritualistic circle we all loved so much due to her anxiety.
As the time to say goodbye to her forever was drawing near, I began writing this poem whilst watching her perform her daily rites of beautification. Being stuck in a Groundhog-Day-esque repetition allowed me to capture each smile and wince in vivid clarity; and I loved her in her utter naturalness and her beautiful unflattery. This poem may just be the only physical fragment of her memory left that exists, but it serves to immortalise Brenda and my fond recollections of her.
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