My Picasso
Sweet Picasso of my own blue blood.
Through heartbreak you were born.
Your image forged by fire and grief.
And a hope that had been torn.
That image old Picasso.
It bled into the fire.
But the flickers that you live to give.
They lit the way to true desire.
Little Picasso, an only child.
I watched you fade away.
With you the night and all the sad.
But you left a better day.
A Picasso reborn? Could I?
I gathered the supplies.
Picasso! Your true face!
Love, your real surprise.
By Keith L. Smith
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