She knows nothing of palettes
or of camel hair brushes,
yet every room she enters
she paints so beautiful
it brings forth murmured hushes.
Silhouettes and shadows too
does she know naught-
save they form or follow her
after all, vanity is a virtue,
or so she thought.
Such patient beauty
like a rainforest flower
waiting for the bee;
(Unashamed to bare all,
most intimate petals,
succulent buds reveal).
Though she is unaware
that patience
actually is a virtue,
still she waits.
Like a rainbow waits
for the sun, or the rain,
she waits knowing...
the artisan like nature,
will create once again.
She knows scarcely a thing
about shading, or shadows.
Grace has she
like millions of flowers
that own spring meadows.
She waits for the painter who,
(watching a while now),
imagines only God could
bring forth such beauty-
(Even then he's not sure how).
And only the Devil below could
stray his eye from his hand
to imaginations carnal and beastly;
This certainly wasn't planned.
The master, his oils all mixed,
isn't sure how to go on-
This beauty so striking,
like a billion angels singing,
Heavens' most gorgeous Psalm.
Lust and desire haven't a place
where he's done this many times,
she poses, he has his way with her
like great poets make love
to words in comely rhymes.
Gold trophy winner
Adding your comment:
and poets do make love with words...as you say.
