The colours grew to life,
‘Neath the fierce unwavering light.
Nothing of hers spoke of strife
Till he appeared, did her eyes darken like night.

He did not speak, and neither did I.
The Duchess, too, said nothing;
Though her pale cheeks, and haunted eyes
Spoke the words left hanging.

My delightful subject was but only,
A mockery of herself, once much becoming
That withered the moment her folly
Brought to her finger the blasted ring.

Though beautiful she still may be,
Her austere countenance now lacks
The spot of joy that could have enticed thee
And the blushing smile that is now but a crack.

My finished painting is said to be a perfect art,
But I humbly beg to differ.
There is no perfection in empty hearts,
Its colours are greyer and dimmer.

An 'imaginative response', as specified for the assignment, to Robert Browning's "My Last Duchess". This is from the Artist's Perspective (Fra Pandolf). The original poem is seen below:

( My Last Duchess )

I am
tired
of being sad.

Sometimes I think I can see the light through the dark black tunnel. The winding tunnel is where the walls are thick and black; it closes in on my smaller form, enveloping, engulfing till I suffocate and see the last thread of hope. A shy glimmer, and it grows and grows till the stars of light are bursting behind my eyelids, blinding, startling, warming.

Then the dream brings me out of the dark tunnel, and suddenly all around me is nothing but vast grassy plains, bright and open. As if its vastness is not terrifying enough, a slight mist rises from the cool ground, curling and dancing around my feet in drifting waves. The mist rises further, till the ice of the dew tingles my skin, a multitude of burning cold pricks – and I am lost.

I run. But with stumbling, flailing legs. I do not know what, or who, I am escaping from, only this inexhaustible urge to escape from the ominous phantom that is after me. My hair is in my face, my breath is coming out in heavy wrecking gasps and my heart is pulsing furiously in my hollow chest.

Just as I feel leaden exhaustion seeping up my numb bones, a strong arm reaches out of the fog and snags me by my waist. It is a relief, it is inviting and comforting; it is home. Instinctively, I lean towards it, unable to hold a smile back. My eyes flutter shut, but as they do, an eerie snicker echoes.

My eyes snap open. It is my lover. With the eyes of Death.

My reflection wavered,
a shuddering sigh
drawn from
tired lips of old.

The water's edge masked
only the truth,
with its shifting lights
and stories told:

Who I was, what I am,
what I hide inside.

It was but a
mere brush of
skin
(on)
skin;
the warmth passed
ever transient,
like the fluttering wings
of a newly born butterfly.

I don't have long, but I'll
w a i t .

Can you feel it? It is my heart; it is broken.

All because I trusted too much, loved too much. Can you see it? The cracks forming in me; I am falling apart. I wrap my arms around myself, keeping myself from shattering. Can you see me? It was my face; it is a mask.

Resentment is a black poison, running deadly through the veins of the accursed.

It creeps like a thief in the night - until one day the beautiful dark surfaces in me. Until one day I face the mirror, realising the reflection is no longer mine.

It is of a monster. And that monster is now me.

Never confide in me
your love;
I'll only break
your heart
I'm sorry I'll
never be
as good as her,
or even close
enough

What we had might
have been something,
special -
Someday
But I ruined it,
just by being
my cruel self,
and now I
regret that
folly

I'm glad, though
you left me
for her;
because I know
for a truth,
that she is far
better than
what I could
ever hope to be