She visits galleries
of Victorian Age paintings,
with Raphael in the background
of her most expensive frame of mind.
heavy daubs of her red, oily hair
drop down to the matt’d floor,
like long, thin wires along the corridor;
slow steps she takes with caution
as she walks, and touches one of the artworks
with her soft hands, eyes on the canvas
of a distant timeless horizon
'tween her reality and dreams:
the line is drawn; the space is fill'd
to leave no scope for printer's devil.
(C) Naveed Khalid
Copy Rights(C) 2010.
All Rights Reserved.
Date Created: Monday, December 20,2010 2: 05: 42 AM
*Titled of this poem has been revisited.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem