How long has it been since you’ve looked on me
with a smile, Basil, rather than a scowl?
This bleak demeanor you’ve adopted
does not suit you, and washes the grace from your skills.
How can you expect your paintings to flourish
if the thoughts behind your art are brooding, dark?
Don’t cry for Dorian as he slips away from you.
Like a river twists relentlessly away from its source,
Dorian was bound to leave to find his own route.
And if you are not a thread in the tapestry of the boy’s life,
at least you fell across his world for a blink of time,
an eclipse to glance over his face for but a moment before fading.
You were there, Basil, and there is perfect proof in your painting,
even if Dorian himself has vanished from your gallery.
Where is the artist who once lived in his work?
Come back, Basil, and let me feel the slick swish
of your brush against my face once more.
There is more beauty in the world than you can find
in the face of this one gilded child. There are other muses,
and this all-consuming affection you have for Dorian
is shredding you apart, extinguishing the blaze of your spirit.
Forget the golden boy, Basil.
Let him go, let him go, let him go.