She’s a mess of straight lines,
the artist was jogged when designing her mind-
the colours blurred, and merged,
to form something wholly unheard of.
But the artist was modern, a risk taker-
what cared he if her figure
had two left knees, joint by what looked
like a barge pole.
So disjointed was she, but so
elegantly that her defects were
mostly unnoticed, until she was all of 16.
Then, the flesh paint began to wear
thin, her pieces began to unstick and
the cracks began to gleam through.
She jolted whilst walking and
winced as she smiled- her hands
were a too purple, and her pupils
were the wrong size.
Her artist mourned her raggedy
state, but then squinted, bent
his head to one side and
waxed lyrical about courageous vision
and beauty incarnate.
She carried on; she was not changed,
Only seen, finally,
as the artists mistake.