I’m the stretched raw canvas, a victim awaiting my fate at the hand of Count Rotari’s artistic whim. I’m the confection of colour promising eternal youth to this maiden muse at my side, my lie betrayed by the twinkle in our painter’s eye.

I’m the silent witness of this tragic tryst – the twisted tale of a Lady’s broken heart and her lover’s forbidden passion – a brazen boast to the day’s stiff propriety. I’m the painted panel, a reflection of her passionate gaze and ripened lips, my oils softened by her wanton breath. I’m the tale teller of a just-picked flesh-toned rose, the black choke of lovely lace exposing this moment’s caprice.

I’ve caused scandal and scorn, been the toast of the Kremlin Court, and seen the ruin of those I have most adored, all of which has made me wise beyond my years.

 

What have you done lately?

 

             Old-folks-photo-frame-read-more            Martinis-read-more

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