An artist dabs daily on his global canvas with pain,
a magnificent Margarita gapped by comber cadences and framed,
refrain from whispers so that portrait can flourish with fluorescent fame,
she whimpers to herself at a tenor that breeds scruple shame.
How can I speak to a wall with no lips, nor ears?
Appears the model has tight-lipped tells that need time to settle,
utter blushing pink roses on primrose cheeks to peek those pearly eyes,
surprised by remorse, don’t be, he re-adapts and dodders in another kettle,
pallid he recites ballads and facile re-enforcement that help the days lies.
How can I live not knowing what she knows?
His aches sibilantly rustle him from outer thoughts and slumber,
she’s a silent nubile image that gives no signs or volley,
amber lips and hips smooth like milk gasping among those infinite umbers,
she’s a voyeur holding her thighs tight to not ignite a folly.
How can I wait for an angel who’s out of reach?
Preach love in all its opalescent glory,
she smiles jocosely at every story,
hearing her ambiance in the heat of his starving heart,
start returning his pecks so your souls are not so far apart.
I only wish my muse can find a way to mirror my creation,
so I may have that same loving sensation.
