She eyed the canvas as she smiled,
Fame and fortune found their child.
She furiously dabbled in her art.
And so the squabbles did start.
She put them to rest,
Without a word, without a protest.
Years went by, what did she do?
Life had painted her black and blue.
A woman of substance, was she still?
Was life her captor or her will?
The steam from the hot water rose,
Was this the life that she once chose?
She watched the water go crimson,
Faintly, she heard the voice of reason.
The crimson hues stroked her fire,
Could she still escape the mire?
Her spirit rekindled,
Her fears soon dwindled.
The embers of hope did light,
When she walked out that night.
That night, the snow surely did melt,
For her fire, it must have felt.
She tread on, tenacious all the while,
Her journey sure did make her smile.
She mused over her theme,
Seasoning her palette and her dream.
She joined the soiree, she began to paint.
Long lost friends, a canvas sans restraint.
About the post: This poem can be interpreted in many ways. I personally feel that it represents a woman of substance, one who not only one who stands up for herself but who also stands tall even after she has taken a fall, it is about second chances. A woman of substance will keep trying to achieve her dream, whatever that may be and it is important for all women to really let themselves dream, be a little selfish-to be what she wants to be, to do what makes her happy. I wrote this for a women's poetry meet recently.
