AN: Hey this was inspired by this Edgar Poe short story I read 'The Oval Portrait' and I couldn't get it out of my mind so I wrote this.

What perfection can be found, within the sands of time?

What love can be found, within a heart as cold as thine?

Every day you look only for the completion of your art,

For it to be splendid, beautiful, lively, and marveled at.

In front of you stands she, whose eyes reflect the deep ocean of her heart,

So fair, fragile, and dedicated only to you, whereas you do not part,

From your passion, your skill, your art, those paintings so glorious to your eyes,

While she patiently waits, for you to be done, to find perfection, all the while time flies.

You ask her, your second love, who would give everything for you,

To pose, to let you paint her, to capture her beauty with red, yellow and blue,

To use her only rival against her, to unite her forever with the vicious art,

You are enamored of, and which would make, if she did not love you, her depart.

So she sits, as charming as ever, in that dark tower, for her love,

As you paint away, with the ardent fervor of one praying to be able to fly like a dove,

Or to conquer the love he has not. And you, having practically both,

For in love is found the other, all but your art loathe.

You say you love her, but your words seem empty,

Shallow and careless, to create an illusion that will help thee,

By imprisoning her in her own heart, in her own mind,

Making her think you do love her, despite the fact you seem blind.

Blind to her affections, blind to her care, blind to her torment,

As she wanes, and dies, day by day, her life for rent,

No one there to buy it but you, and your art snatches it,

As you paint, it steals her gorgeous spirit.

In your art, on that painting, does her spirit lie,

You painted her, and unknowingly watched her fly,

Fly away, far away from you, when she saw proof, that you did not care,

And you did not love her; she died as soon as she could dare.

When your oval portrait was complete,

Her death was imminent, as she confessed defeat.

Now you will not see her, except in that portrait,

And you can only your art declare forfeit.

She is dead, by your art, by your hand, by your lover.