Finished

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

Tonight.

So goodbye Last Dance,

For I will sleep tonight.

J. Allen Wilson © 2004