My body is a painting,
and if you take into account the rust under your nails
and the ocean in your eyes
art is a place in which you may lye.
A masterpiece of a greater bad
a sturdy hand with thick veins
and a heavy brow
he has made from you
a home for a passing thought;
a train station of beauty
held in every plot of color and scheme of light,
so that you will have something to hold
in the depth and loss of solen night.
Let your fingertips wander onto the board
filled with chalk and sand as to make
your throbbing heart listen to the ache
in which your sensitivity lives.
Black eyelashes bat and whisper in the sin
of your lies and the sting of your intensity and despise.
Unapologetically pink lips linger on the words of another
and yet so far your body hath not housed one so indifferent
as to your flawless eb of breath and depth of mind.
And you so long to facilitate the meaning and grace
bitten from the ear of procrastination
upon your sturdy shoulders lies the infatuation
with the ruins of rome that so lay in the strands of hair
in which you comb.
Thus into a crisp river painted in strands of watercolors
fleshed of peach, highlights of orange
colors so unique to the draft of God’s water
yet so angelic following the curve of your hip,
as if a suited man hath lottered for your hand.
vines sprawl vastly downwards into plumb legs,
tied close by the direction of beauty
as ever disgusted with absence of glamour ideals
Lightninging struck your legs at growth
leaving minuscule trails of creation onto the skin in which you call home