The Artist

The Artist

He came upon an empty canvas,
An unadorned, empty vessel,
But he believed potential beauty lie
Where others could see nothing.
Be still, he said, just let me.
With his smile, he painted promises
Pastel colored, tranquil,
Calming and inviting.
His poetic words,
A smoky, sultry wine and cheese reading;
Stoking seldom, if ever, felt
Steamily primative emotions.
His fingers danced a tarantella
Over quivering, but reluctant flesh.
His kiss, a full symphony
Of desire, of passion, of longing.
An eager brush, a blowtorch, was he,
Slowly melting and transforming
The glass, the base metal,
The silver, the gold
Of what once was my closed heart,
My too-often hurt spirit.
Slowly dipping, spinning, forging, turning,
Masterfully merging the newly-discovered me
Into the constant, comforting warmth of him.
Until at last we were formed,
Forged,complete.
A wondrously unique
And lasting work of art.