Empty room, bleak, white walls.
Standing still, shrouded in a cloak of black.
Poised, porcelain face, perfect to those who
look only uopn the surface.
Painted lips, caressed with a smile 
yet her eyes do not concur.

Substance of creativity lay unexposed,
awaiting the strike of a match,
which will set fire to that suffocating cloak,
scorching away every aspect of her fake facade,
unvieling a vast variety of ideas.

Then the blackened cloak bursts and flutters out
with a multitude of coloration

Her smooth, chilled porcelain mask begins to crack,
as light teems from the openings.
Shattering, her former masquerade falls,
revealing the warm fleshy tones of her facet.
Speaking in tongues as she shares
her true self to those who care to listen.
Genuinely elated at the thought of being heard

Those once bare walls now
coated in a wash of colors, words, and images.
Only then will you see the true artist
behind the painted canvas.