Rogues Gallery

Swirling colours fill a palette painted charcoal grey,
Drawing eyes toward a sanctuary near but not beholden.
An architect’s gentle hand weaves the mastery of love,
Veiled behind her telling smile, the face of a thousand masks.
In place of a brushstroke, a soul descends,
Carrying with it the eternal dream of awakening.
“It is not for the spectator to decide this;
The architect’s hand bends to her own will and no one else’s.
Let the one who is willing to receive this, receive it.”
The palette is empty once more,
Colours hidden by the overwhelming presence of grey.
A portrait torn, a gallery in agonising exhibition.
How long before she once more replaces her mask?

I really like the imagery you have in your poem...great job!

I will make a literature/writing board here soon.