His muse is a temptuous ballerina A vision of elegance poised and perched The strain along her calves Heats like a drum inside a caldron Infinite imagination resonnates Circles of glistening stars From the pink bow near her heart To the salty tears upon her cheeks Her palms weathered tortuous storms Her fingers scorhing fury of flame Of tying the knot that is on her heart
The pinkish bow The blueish hue The one he treasures His beloved muse
His love is a vainglorious throne Such passion and desire set in marble stone The blame along her thighs the rain along her hips Pitter-patters like her sweaty palms across his adoring lips Kiss her but once he now explores To touch her he needs more To feel her he is consumed with love from her
The pinkish bow The blueish hue The one he treasures His beloved muse.
If I could paint a portrait, of this life in which I've led, and somehow sketch a story, of the visions in my head, I'd start out with a canvas, stretched tightly in a frame, and in the bottom corner, I'd leave room to sign my name. (Michelle A. Bartley)