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Poetry By Marguerite Fleur (The Painting)
The Painting
Your canvas was flesh. With brush and belt, you flung your paint: reds and purples, blues and blacks. You inspire your creation with the music of innocent tears. Your artist's hands like steel cashmere select your tools for just the right texture, just the right sting. Eyes of boyish blue long since gone to ice evaluate too much dead space your sensibility tells you, so you lay down another layer with the flat of your words. Your model crouches in pose and you adjust an angle with the heel of your boot.
The barest shift, lost in the trance of great art. Perfect.