The Art Thief

Hour 4 Poetry Marathon

Proudly she stands next to her exhibition

Watching as people write notes on their catalogues

Desperate to know what they think

Despite knowing she must remain stoic



This was a culture shock

She’d never felt like this before

People wanting to admire her work

Nerves were melting within her



She clasps her hands behind her back

Trying not to bite her nails

Trying to appear confident, natural

Out of depth, she felt like gulping down oxygen



Drowning without water

Was she in over her head?

She fakes a smile at a man looking quizzically at her

“Do I know you?” he asked her quietly



Shaking her head, she felt her body start to tremble

She did know him

He was at her first exhibition

The one that had ended her work for years



He examined her pieces more carefully

“I’m sure I recognise this”

He mutters under his breath

Of course, she had to include that one piece



The first piece she had ever created

The one that had cast her out of the art world

To no fault of her own

Bitterly, her mind drove her back to that night



When a man asked her where she drew her inspiration

She hadn’t known what to say then either

She prayed to a god she didn’t believe in

That he didn’t recognise her



His frown was furrowing his brow

Glancing around, she could see no sign of his wife

Allowed herself to breath just a little

Terror still gripped her heart

His wife was the one who had stolen

Befriended her

Encouraged her to share

Everything



The thief that stole into her mind and soul

Had turned them inside out to understand her

Just so she could twist her story

Claiming she the thief



Although unseen

She couldn’t shake the trepidation

The fear within

Vulnerable, her soul on display for all to see



Insidious in nature, the wife was uncaring

Declared that she had inspired these pieces

Hers to proudly display, stolen brazenly

With no thought of regret



Small and timid

She had no proof, no voice

But that was then

The epitome of a victim

But no more, proud and tall beside her work

She no longer feared the thief and the man

Their power was gone

They did not know her secret pigments



Rubbing her fingertips made them ache in response

Her DNA embedded in the tranquil scenes

Such lengths to protect what was hers

Against the theft of her mind and soul