The Day She Stopped Painting
Brush in hand,
she stood at the window sill,
waiting for inspiration.
The swish and zoom and honk of vehicles
could not do for symbols of life.
Chattering schoolchildren,
busy pedestrians,
offered only so many tales.
A touch on her shoulder
startled her musings --
her uncle stood leering behind her.
Before she could find her voice,
he was done.
A blood-stained canvas,
torn clothes,
scattered paint.
There was no evidence for the public.
While she walked from one clinic to another,
the empty canvasses in her room
wept silently.
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