Missing Mona Lisa’s Smile
Her life was a masterpiece, painted to perfection,
her florid history imbibed in every flick of paint,
her enigmatic smile revealed a thousand secrets,
her eyes are bright with purpose and memory.
We barely even noticed when the first holes appeared,
our mind still put the whole masterwork together,
ignored the diamond bullets penetrating the canvas,
witnessed vital pieces of her life and history at a time.
She started forgetting things, but who doesn’t?
She couldn’t remember little things first, what day it was,
when the bins went out, got confused with names and
memories, jumbled up, odd things put in wrong places.
As more and more bullets hit the magnum opus
it became harder to understand true intention,
harder to watch and be mesmerised, too many holes,
too much missed information, life, happens in-between.
She continued in her ignorance, skipping over
everything that was forgotten, finding ways to
paper over the growing cracks with post-it notes,
calendar and diary, or just with a wistful smile.
The holes kept coming from the unseen gun,
sporadic and deadly, ripped more and more
of her history apart, her time-line fractured,
seventy years ago intact, the last few years gone.
Empty spaces were mirrored on her weary face,
increasing lines, frowns and so much confusion,
anxiety grew, the beautifully painted artistry
faltered, flagged, confusion led to many falls.
Miserable gunshots punctuated the violent air,
a desperate metronome to the vagaries of time,
aging, aging, aging, everyone could see it now,
the painting was ripped, modern times had gone.
She spent most of her time in the 1940’s and 50’s,
remembering running around in war torn Britain,
playing in the derelict buildings, dancing with
American soldiers, the joy of kisses and sweets.
Her life was a flawed masterpiece, full of holes,
her history gone, her present uncertain, her memories
falling like the last strips of canvas, her treasures
lost within her, wrapped in secrets, hidden from view.