Poets go blind from writing by moonlight,
But my artist smites the moon with her luminance,
I write by her subtle, cyan, rays
And would gladly go blind for, with her, my eyes find their fill quickly,

She is the unexpected wind bouncing off the water’s surface,
And my chest is the sail,
Lifted, pushed, expanded and fulfilled to its most righteous purpose,

If the world is a stage than she is the red velvet curtain,
Commanding a sway so slight and savory
That other rags rent and burn,

No matter how mesmerizing the performance is,
A sudden hush or vibrant ovation is demanded in her wake,
A sultry swirl of goddess and girl,
Too precious to be stored with other jewels,

Elegance with every hinting glance, every rowdy inhale,
And every placement of those sinister legs,
That rams would think twice to scale,

The bend in her back is the stroke of my oils,
The pout of her lips is scarlet meat to the lions,
And the feel of her hips sum up my surreptitious desires,

Like good jazz things seem to pull back
Before the cathartic crescendos,
But to put it bluntly dear, the next time you’re here,
It may pay to freshen up with a Mentos.