Soliloquies in hidden diaries,
And supressed desires in secret strummings;
Dreams in the strokes of colours in exile from sunlight,
And a secret romance in subdued hummings;
An outburst in sketches of the future,
Concealed in the spark of tormented eyes;
There is something so tragically beautiful
About art behind closed doors.
A sight for sore eyes,
But much less poetic
Than cries of anguish and tears of grief.
So here’s to healing, my love.
Create as you destroy.
And reveal as you hide.
For there is no pity to be parted
For your hidden art
Or your unveiled pain.