Everything forever a mystery.
What a wonderful thing adding to a colour – something to mean.
A brush upon pearlescent.
Surface so pure.
An aesthetic to please none but the weary pools of lost endeavour.
Coy it becomes.
The glimmer of her smile across a place
that captivates so
this humble servant of written word.
Another stroke of nine to go as one is left so perfectly to cure.
Moments not even left for gone had determined this colour upon
a place where I long for mine to ever clearly be.
The bristles sway as she controls its wash.
Moving with grace a lifetime may see never perfected, this artist does.
Eight to go and time stands still.
Again she looks and sees it right
enough to shift her gaze and with a slight adjust
the brush to colour another must.
Trivial a thought this pattern be.
For one as amazing and careful as she,
the artist drops to seven as bristles they seem just never quite right to be.
Colour this darkness true
as black and things for her it just
doesn’t seem to rightfully do.
A beige, a natural more reflective face
she opts for them to have.
Subtle she decides to be.
They sway slowly from side to side, this artist and her five.
A lover’s choir in the auditorium
of brush and subtle colour.
Just to dry and then to bed, she looked across to him and said.
Just to dry and then to bed.