An Artist's Touch

  

An Artist's Touch 

  How lovely she be, her hair curling beneath her blossoming hat. The gentle kempt design of each strain. The dark glow against the morning sun as her dark hair rests upon her shoulders. Dangling like threads of silk. Divine I say, absolutely divine.

  Her eyes, their complexion spill with the delicacy of the soul. Spilling like colors of the morning sun against a glistening sea. I can feel her presence even when we are distant in stare. Their vibrant collection of life, how much she has lived in such little space, such short time.

  My brush, carefully stroking against the canvass with passion. Allowing her existence to become the reality of this art. Her art, her, she is everything. How wild her curves play against the contrast of this world. Nature bares much, but there is no competition to be had.

 For even nature shows she'd be foolish to rival such beauty. Her skin, smooth as the melting light from an evening moon. Her jaw, lined like the sculptures of the gods. A purity of lines, shapes, bends, and perks, that cannot be matched.


  God was seeking perfection when he made her. My heart is racing as I watch her sit silently in a pose of vivid femininity. Such elegance, such grace, no man can be as such. Our beastly composition, our ravaged steps like animals in the jungle.

 We have little pride in our workings of ourselves. Conquer we wish, "take down the enemy!" we scream. Losing sight of those beside us, our blood running hot, descendants of mars. But she, she is of Neptune, calm in color but angelic in presence. "All eyes upon her" the crowd would say.

  My hands gently quiver as I fear I may slip upon my canvass. A mistake, how terrible would that be? To be the culprit of destruction of such beauty, a goddess. Her eyes linger with patience and such force.

  I am compelled to keep this brush constant. Never to bore her or keep her waiting. No gentleman should do as such to a lady. Be on time, generous, full of passion and be daring and never be without the confident masculine. Lean her for a kiss when the rain falls and the sun is gone. 

  Dance with her, when life is burdened beneath dark clouds and the roar of the devil seeps from the belly of thought. Be the comfort of her when she is broken in spirit, and in return, she shall do the same.

 Here I am, admiring the silent position of a goddess. I am humbled, grateful, but I am a mere artist. I bring no wealth and I am lost in my directions. But I have found my heart among art, among the strokes of brush, among the colors that create. That build something we see, into something that can be admired, loved, held, touched forever.

  Oh, how lovely her voice as we spoke before the beginning of my heart painted upon this canvas. Does she know? Does she know the hope she has given, I know little of her, but I feel...I feel I have found something?

  Something to truly hold, to behold in the heart and the mind. How beautifully she falls upon this canvas. Unmatched she blends to this artistic touch with such influence. It would unwise to say such gorgeous art would go unseen but by us.

 For she walks as if god had painted her from his tears. Oh, how bountiful this moment feels, I wish it never to end. Let my brushes break, my paint run dry, so that we may share more memories. For if I finish this painting, she will surely walk away.
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When one is stricken by beauty, by attraction, what is one to do? 
Is there love at first sight? 

Be lost in the journey of the heart, A Man's Traveled Heart
Coming soon, The Bleeding of Words

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