Tell me again, lover.
Is it you who makes the paint run
Down through your hair, over your shoulders
Streaming down your back like
A mirage in the Gobi
Each drip a thousand colors
A thousand words I kept to
Myself
So you would keep guessing my adoration
Of your strokes, your annotations on love
A portrait, a blur, of a heart inverted
Holding on to the barbed wire strands
Bleeding out onto this parchment
Your blues and your passionate reds
Thrusting the corners of a medieval canvas
Stretched in burlap and servant's tears
A river of hue down your smooth, slow body
Animating the very life of you
Shaking, changing shapes
Thick brushes of confidence, lush and wet
Tickling the senses with its contact
And upon glance it is noted that here lies
A bond that can only be expressed
Through artistic means.

06/15/2008

Posted on 06/15/2008
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