OPUS

Sun, 08/02/2015 - 21:46 -- biomage

The Old Masters paint ladies with rough horsehair brushes

and treat them with noxious turpentine.

They blow them up big and dress them in gauzes unpurchasable, silks unperishable:

Beauty (yet) Unattainable. 

Lovely Models, art indeed: Made to be admired (but from a distance).

Do. Not. Touch.

and that's "All So Nice" BUT does she breath?

the nuance of a smile formed by Muscle and elicited by Will, is

so much more satisfying a sight to behold than one rendered in static media.

This is not a critique.

this is praise.

Darling, I don't call myself an Artist,

but when we go to galleries to see the Masterpieces...

I turn around, and it's you.

it's all You.

 

This poem is about: 
Me

Comments

Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.
 

 

If You Need Support

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741