The Artist

There was an Artist, mild in manner, who

was so quiet in her ways that most failed to

Notice her. She had long black hair that went to her

Shoulders and was worn down to conceal the treasure

Of her emerald gaze. She often wore a

Shirt of neutral colors, mainly black and gray,

And tattered jeans with holes on the knees,

And when it was gold an oversized fleece.

She always carried a sketchbook under her arm

And a pencil behind her ear. There was no harm,

That she could do, she was so sweet,

The gentlest person you could ever meet.

But , in some instances, one could almost think

They saw something, but it was gone in a blink.

If one looked closely they would see deep inside

There was another person that she chose to hide;

A stronger person, more blunt in her ways,

More honest in her actions and in what she says,

But that other person stayed hidden within

Just like the drawings she drew on whim

In her sketchbook, bound in black leather

That protected her precious art from the weather.

Her drawings themselves were of various things,

Of far away fantasies and beasts with wings,

Of angels and demons and boys with long noses,

Chimeras and gryphon’s and girls holding roses.

These were the things that the artist drew,

But who the artist was inside, nobody knew.

A/n: this was written for my Brittish Literature class. The assignment was to write a character skecth using Chaucer's style of popetry (Chaucer wrote the Canterbury Tales). So...this is what I ended up writing. Rate me kindly, but honestly, please bows.