The Veiled Mannequin

In the corner of his grimy workshop she stood,
A veil covering her anonymous face.
Commonplace pots fighting for space,
In the land he called his own place.

No artist was he, nor finesse he knew,
But he had crafted her as his fancy had seized -
Each part for one of his colorful emotions.
The fiery eyes and delicate hands,
The upturned nose and caressing fingers,
Her comely figure and the cracked heels.

Each part of her was poetry in its own right,
So beautiful was she – the daughter of his emotions,

But he kept her enshrouded from the alen gaze,
Showing them only her allusive silhouette,
For he knew and believed,
That none would appreciate her as much as he did,
The veiled mannequin – the daughter of his emotions…