This fractured frame’s borders, a canvas torn,
Painted by fear as true if truth would spin
From the belly of splayed bristles so worn
By the even stress of beguiling strokes,
How brightly these colors burn upon my
Brush, bright colors caked by this painter’s hoax
To turn the course from pain of love’s true dye,
I would rush but now refrain, to mend so
Soon this canvas torn, to patch and compose
With more deceit - to what ends would I go
To end the pain of loss, this vandal knows
These false strokes must yield - for he dare not taint
Her heart - to let itself the picture paint
