It slips off me,

Like velvety moss drip.

I open my eyes

To take in the sun.

In my ear, something rings,

With disheveled hair

Turning to the side,

My divine masculine sits.

Engrossed in tones and keys,

He plays a melody

On a fair maiden beauty

With his mind’s eye, he sees

Lands elusive and discreet.

If anyone has ever told

What an artist will play,

Then, they shall know

What my masculine sees.

For I know what he feels

Through the cold keys of

His fair maiden beauty.

Enchanting and breezy,

The melody being reason

To this redamancy

That I’m witnessing

This love he has for his white beauty,

He knows not, I know

Who stands above me.

But art is art in itself,

And holds you prisoner

In its sweet claws of peace and serenity.

Published by bluebellswisdom

I write. I paint. I dance. I stay sorted.

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