Enslaved Artist

Bound to the horse, the artist had to yield;
Enslaved as a cart that bears loads not her own
She creaks and rattles all the way from the field,
Stumbling and colliding with mounds and stones.

‘Say not,’ ‘do not,’ politics yells at her;
The cords of pressure hauls her flesh by her neck;
Against her conscience she must act, reined with fear.
Who ignores peace while it is at his beck?

On many canvases, she drew landscapes,
But her paintings were rags she wished were laces;
Those pathetic works had right objects and shapes,
But had rainbows hued upon their faces.