Drawing over lines you've penned,
and I've erased (accidentally),
I realize that I lack your steady hand
and the confidence obtained
by knowing the anatomy of dinosaurs.
He looks cruel now, and shaky,
as if in the time it took
for me to erase his identity,
he's completely lost himself
in the white expanses surrounding.
It seems only solid lines could hold him.
I tried to rebuild him.
He stares straight at me,
the jagged teeth that used to smile
somehow, now wobble and gnash.
His brow is drawn down in anger,
erasing all the light-hearted mischief
it used to hold.
You draw pink dinosaurs,
but what kind of monster have I created?
Very intriguing. One reason is your attempt to bring back what is gone forever or can never be, yet you persist and end up with something awful which you have created. Another interpretation that occurs to me is the fact that we should not try to change those we marry with the idea of changing them.