His studio is alive with her naked
beauty of pristine perfection, as
she poses, her slender body wrapped
in see through silk, that covers the most
subtle beauty, each curve of her alabaster
skin so defined, yet so fragile to the eye.
The curtain is flung open, as the gentle breezes
caress the room and swirl around the artist,
as his brush is given a life of its own
to blend the fine colors on the palette
that awaits his artistic magic.
It beckons him to watch each movement
that she reveals to his perfection
and trained eye, to view in detail her lips
that open slightly, revealing the lines and
slight hint of pink to her female passions
like a flower that open’s and stretches
it’s petals to the warmth of the morning sun.
He sketches her neck that leads to
a bosom so shapely and perfectly formed
by the hand of a god, so soft and tender,
yet gently rounded with each brush stroke of only
the finest oils on a canvas of linen, not spoiled by
time and dust-covered cobwebs of the past.
He breathes the life into his subject with every
twist and turn of his wrist and fine eye, he
puts on white the purest colors of flesh-tones
to make her come alive before him.
This night he knows the beauty before
him, is all but a dream, as he closes his eyes
to waken to an empty dungeon of his
tortured soul, lost forever in his twisted
mind of demons whose only color is black
and red of hell’s eternal fire. He weeps
alone, yet finds no comfort.
In the still quiet places he can still see her
as she quietly beckons him to come to her,
and be the artist that he was, the master
of beauty in all he touched, with clarity of
thought and passion and a vision so true.
He wrestles the demons and wishes for his
death to end this torture of black and red, to
feel the whites and yellows, and pale blues
and golden amber, of yesterdays as he slips
again over the edge of hell.
© Copyright 2012 by Vincent Moore. All rights reserved