Melody Unchained

Her voice was such a melody,
Tranquil and sweet;
A voice which never belonged
To heaven or to earth.

Her whisper became a song
Her laughter a pleasant dream
Her speech was so soft
Her demeanor so warm.

Then she saw the painter
Who used to speak
Not with his lips but
With his canvas.

People used to avoid him
For he was said to be a thief
Not of mere money
But of their soul.

In knowing all this
She became an admirer
People warned her, for they knew,
It was to cost her dearer.

She went near him
And spoke a word.
His eyes glittered and he offered
To make a painting of her voice.

She giggled, she was charmed.
She wanted to see how
Such a thing was done.
“Go ahead” she said.

He took his instruments that
She had never seen before.
She felt an urge to run away.
But it was too late.

She cried, she mourned.
For she could not speak a word.
Her voice was a mere babble,
Her tears were her last words.

He walked away with his master piece.
For the whisper, the laughter, and the cry
Every thing was now
A part of his paint.

Her voice was such a melody,
Tranquil and sweet;
A voice that inspired art
A voice that belonged to the wind.

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