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JJRKelly Aug 2017
For you my art becomes somatic.
For you it melds asomatous and adroitness.
My oeuvre is intended for you
and so I bestow with the invisible ink,
of the mind that only you see,
the precious words thick with dreams
and hidden meanings.
L'œuvre de la Nuit
Showcased to an audience of only one
At 3am whilst the world waits on the sun.
Inspired by a masterpiece
My work has only just begun.
And we’ve many more sunset to dawns
To layer my ardor many times over
On your heart.
L'œuvre de la Nuit
Artwork of the night
JJRKelly Aug 2017
You
Turn me into a poet aroused
by the beauty of your being and I
Feel the increasing need to impart,
to write with asomatous ink, many a stanza upon
the surfaces of the recesses of your heart.
My desire for you transforms me from beast
Into a composer with a symphony,
to compose lush chanson to reach
deep and strong within thee
until you vibrate with a thousand
instruments.
La nuit commence tout juste.
With such art fait la nuit
is there really need for sleep?
La nuit commence tout juste
the night is just beginning

Asomatous entered English in the mid-1700s from Late Latin asōmatus, which derives from the Greek asṓmatos "disembodied, incorporeal."

Oeuvre de la nuit
Work of the Night
Work meaning the sum of an artists works.
JJRKelly Aug 2017
Tonight
I want first to explicate
and delve into the many ways
that I will love you
through ever so many days.
And afterwards to situate
the softest, and warmest touch
of lips like a painters wet brush
onto new canvas.
To seep into you like
a vocalists voice into new lyric.
To flow with you akin
a dancer gliding through the motions
of a grand romance, an
oeuvre cowritten by you and I
performed through the night.
oeu·vre
noun
the works of a painter, composer, or author regarded collectively.

De la Nuit
Of the Night
Heather Valvano Jun 2015
blurring a line
defining an edge
I have to find a way
to make my colors blend
I'm only happy
when I'm me
and my canvas is black with complexity
I draw the lines
straight and clean
but sometimes that isn't
what is seen
blurring a line
defining an edge
I am alive through my pen
I work on my portrait endlessly
my cells are words
my blood a river of poetry
an unfinished work
an oeuvre of me

— The End —