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The Painting
Your canvas was
flesh. With brush and belt,
you flung your paint: reds and purples,
blues and blacks. You inspire your creation
with the music of innocent tears. Your
artist's hands like steel cashmere select
your tools for just the right texture,
just the right sting. Eyes of boyish blue
long since gone to ice
evaluate too much dead space
your sensibility tells you, so
you lay down another layer with
the flat of your words. Your model
crouches in pose and you adjust
an angle with the heel of your boot.
The barest shift, lost
in the trance of great art.
Perfect.
By Marguerite Fleur
 Naree · Wed Apr 20, 2005 @ 03:11am · 0 Comments |
