Linda Bloomfield

The Portrait

I was a portrait on the wall
so different from the others
I wasn’t really there at all
with all his other lovers

I thought I was a masterpiece
a prize beyond compare
for I had won his heart and love
but it was just a share

I’m still a portrait on the wall
though grey and sadly faded
the people come to look at me
the children and the aged

But not before they’ve gazed upon
the portrait next to me
she hangs there in her loveliness
for all the world to see

My artist now loves her instead
though why I’ll never know
for I loved him as surely as
the winter brings the snow.

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