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The Artist's Muse
The Artist's Muse
His artistic eyes consumed
Her aesthetic, unclad form
Bathed in the pure morning sun
And last night's lust.
Her tangled locks caught in them -
Scents of their love and young red wine.
He faced the easel, colour palette
Held in one hand, paintbrush in another
Deciding the hues and shades.
She lay on the bed naked,
Posing as he had asked.
The canvas displayed her likeness-
Beautiful and sweet, elegant and dainty.
His paintbrush dipped in rose-tinted red -
The
colour of her cheeks and moist lips.
He remembered how her lips, like a feather,
Had glided over his body last night.
He could go on all-day
Carefully stroking her contours
With his paintbrush to stain its hair with
The odour of her composition.
With each stroke of his brush
He would immortalize
The romance of the artist and his muse.
At night, her framework was the canvas
His fingertips- the paintbrush
Colouring her insides
With every moan and thrust.
