Your art, my eyes fascinate over
The detail so plenty, my focus, undecided
An inspiration for it, I fail to find
An inspirer, has it become.
My first glance taken, intrigue built
Paint or pastel; bewildered I am left
Art at its finest, I concede
Your marks, deceptive of your youth.
Commend you do I, to soon for your efforts
Your work incomplete, told; unnoticed
My eyes revert to its previous indulgence
Beauty defined, seen; an artists' mind exceeding the viewers.
Repetition a joy, not a task
An admirer I have become, awaiting the last stroke.