She, the painter, not used to this side
stretches her legs to try and abide
by my instructions, I want her just right...
for once, she's the subject for the night.
I am no artist with a brush
but with her, there's no need to rush:
already a perfect canvas, you see,
so I finger paint her carefully
making sure to use deep colored hues
that compliment her curves, for views
that only I see as I paint her skin,
captivating her; passion welling within...
not a part of her left unpainted,
with each erotic zone, become reacquainted,
and, at last, when she can take no more,
I bring my brush unto the door
of her palette of wonder, and dip it in
stroke after stroke, again and again...
when finshed, am left with a work of art
to gaze upon and cherish to heart
for the vision is to be quite savored,
her beauty, unmatched and forever favored,
until the time she allows me the chance
to be the painter and let my brush dance
across her canvas so blissfully divine;
this masterpiece will someday be mine.
William Lacey Turnbull 9-12-2017