The Living Portraits

She wanders through the halls of her abandoned family home,

most of it resembling remains of the catacombs.

Except for the portraits, as they still hang.

Sneaking secret glances, she feels the first pang.

They glare as though they know what she’s done.

Of course they do! They had known before it begun.

Steadying her gaze forward,

she determinedly walks through.

Ignoring their dangerous glances,

thrown at her like daggers and lances.

How could she have known? It was a fate delicately sewn.

But some would say the hands holding needles were her own.

It is unlike her to worry so,

but the portraits would never let it go.

They bore their eyes deep into her cracked soul,

but she thinks she’s still the one in control.

Head held high,

with dusk drawing nigh,

she refuses to give in to this game.

She stands to face her regret and endless shame.

The wave of strength hits the shore,

but with every step, recedes more and more.

Her feet become heavy as though treading through mud,

she looks down and finds herself wading through blood.

Every step forward pushes her two steps back,

vigor chipping away after every attack.

She can take it no more and she faces the portraits.

Staring back at their accusing eyes,

gives out a relinquishing sigh.

Her eyes swollen with bitter tears,

she confesses all her hidden fears.

With head heavy in her salty, wet hands,

she falls to her knees and accepts the reprimand.

“I’m so sorry”,

she cries, “I’m so sorry”.

It is hard not to sympathize at such a weak and vulnerable state,

But the portrait gazes do not falter, remaining full of hatred and distaste.