As Sally Jones walked into school,
all our heads turned her way.
Her long chocolate locks curled;
perfectly framing her face.
A beam of light surrounded her,
as if angels followed in her wake.

Like wide-eyed deer, we stared,
as she glided through the hallway.
Passing us, she smiled and waved
showing off her array of glistening pearls.
But mesmerized by her beauty,
we stood and gawked.

Fashionable skirts and dresses she wore
with patterns of beautiful roses.
Her crystal blue pools glimmered
in the midst of the room.
We whispered in the corners
wishing we could be her.

But Sally Jones painted secret pictures
of striking shades of scarlet red.
Ones she kept hidden very well
behind the rosy bushes.
Never to be seen
by our eyes.

A new picture painted every night
with her cold, sharp, and silvery brush,
a way to release the pain
caused everyday, by us.
As the brush slid across the canvas,
she began to relax, the pain running away.

Sally enjoyed letting the paint run
off the pale canvas and to the tile.
So the soft pitter-patter of the crimson drops
could be heard through the quiet empty house;
she sat and watched the paint
trickle down and create a puddle on the cold floor

The puddle soon flooded into a pool
as the picture lost its color.
However, the outlines of the newest painting remained
overlapping many of the faded sketches
Her crimson stained hands smeared fingerprints
as she braced herself against the wall.

She knew this was the last picture she would ever paint;
she wouldn’t have to wake up to a new day
and pretend for us any longer.
Relaxed and light she felt,
and laid her tear stained cheek on the tile floor
and slipped away into an everlasting slumber.