I made the first stroke, On our virgin framed canvas, Sheer ecstasy! Coating our painting of love, A brush and a palette, Crimson ink from my heart Briskly cultured my half, Melted affection into art. But you left your half untouched, Your beret to gather dust, Your bristles dry and parched, Your heart sated and scarlet, Void picture! Halfway quenched, Like a dying fire with no bellows, A piano with only white keys. But my limb pushed me to paint, Culture your half with my surviving ink, Drain my cardiac tincture, Give our painting a clincher, Altruistic love! Bleached my heart and its nerve, Robbed its hue and its curve. A gavel and a French accent, The verdict and the critic, An infatuation! Not worthy my ink you said, A painter for a sculptor you'd trade, It was only a fading charade. Though beaten and pale, Matte grey like Calvary, I pinned the picture in the gallery, Praying for an eye of valor, That will behold my sacrifice of color, And heal my heart's pallor.