Art Is a Place (unfinished)

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

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