Portrait of My Friend
The chalk of colour; I held
like when I was five and before me
a white sheet; I was compelled
to draw a picture so free
of pain and tears,
of bitterness and fears.
A stroke turned two
and became a thousand more;
There was no question who
the face belonged to, for
such freedom a friend can give,
only you, my dear, can conceive.
Stared at the portrait, complete
with colours you blessed me with;
there is no trace of deceit
or lies; but such depth of a myth
telling everlasting tales of something true,
something of faith and love; you.