The French Impressionist

You swept in like a French impressionist with the leaves blowing in the air. You snapped a photograph of me swinging and my long blonde hair. We made love all night long, and shared a life that wasn’t at all wrong. Now the haystacks are on fire, and the water lilies are gone. I dared to embrace a pure boundless movement for creativity, exploring my subconscious like a Dali art form. All I could see were fields of corn, with a lake full of whispers, as you walked away into your ring of fire. Walking away from our dreams and desires. I wonder who you now admire, with your social climbing, and condescending tone. I tried to remain in composure in my mind full of strife. As you took your vows and threw them down in an angry game of knives. Now Monet, and Dali have left; the only thing I have left is this oil painting of Picasso, where the elderly man sings, his ruined clothing and a bucket full of dreams. As he panhandles at night he hunches over his guitar with no one in sight, reminds me of my time on the streets, where I was left with abuse and no place to eat. You swept in like a French impressionist with a camera in hand, ready to take advantage of my hair and the pure white sand. The haystacks caught fire, and the lilies have died, and now you have a new wife by your side.