She unfolded before me
From across a weary mind's sea,
She taunted and teased as she directed my thoughts
One's which taxed my very soul.
For she demanded of me…
A perfection of continuity,
She exclaimed and declared,
The direction of my stroke,
to the very color of her hair.
Oh how I would beg,
And how I would plead,
For she really did not understand,
This painter I call me.
Yet still, I must declare,
She really began to treat me unfair.
For to sleep to her you see, was not a need,
And chastise me would she
when I had the nerve to climb beneath the sheets.
So there I would lie, all snug in bed,
And I would hear her calling out into the night
Calling for a little more blue
or just a smidgen more red.
I guess that I shall never call her complete,
For she to me, has become a living entity
A persona all of itself
One that continuously wants my help.
Yet even in this, she will have to understand,
That to a writer like me, I must have a plan.
Perhaps I will paint some tape across her mouth shut,
so that I will not hear her complain to me so much.
But then again, If she keeps it up,
I will grab my jar of titanium white
And stroke her completely from the scene.
So with this said
I am calling her done,
With the exception of the poem
Which I must write
So goodbye Last Dance,
For I will sleep tonight.
J. Allen Wilson © 2004