The Painter sits alone now,
in a cold dark room.
Remembering the colors of their love
and the girl who believed its was true
So cunning and cleaver he was
yet deception filled his brush as
drops of water ran down like rain
and the elusive colors washed away.
Although he tries to salvage whats left,
he, alone, sits without paint
for there is no one to believe
his painted veil of lies.
There's no scene which he could paint,
no portrait worth a glance,
no heart
left to break.
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