Rosalie

A painter of religious scenes, she dabs another frame, stands quiet without relief, regards the thing she's honed, tired of other games, doubts she's ever alone, in yellow nights of dreams, even when she's far away, nothing is what it seems, in many ways she's prone, looks lost without a name, the work is just her own, insight lets her see, painting's like the mail, it arrives from history, the pull of other thrones, never lets her reign, serene when she's gone, work is her Gethsamane, wakes and eyes the day, another stroke for liberty, can be no other way.