In your Sillouette,
Painted Gold, against Magic Curtain.
This Oz Stage, Hiding our bodies.
I am lingering.

You are gilded beautiful
Bare ******* pointed at Chandeliers
****** Capstones sealing perfect Arches
I am a foot protruding from your sculpture
In mustard.
I am that blot behind your Hip Bone

Cold Draft from the window
Opened Opposite the Magic curtain
A breath of ocean waves
Our bodies casting illusions
In ripples of Moonlit fabric
Dancing around our sillouette.

Black Moss collects in the shape of your tattoos
Silk screen thighs,
Underbust Corset

where the breeze whispered

where my fingertips wrapped your hipbones.
growing where we Calloused
In our Roughs
In our trenches
Rubbing Leather against Silk

You invested in our common interest.
A mirror, Fastened to the Ceiling.
Reflecting Our Two Loudest Vices.
Ownership,
And your body.

I love the Chips in your paint.
I hate the man who painted you.

infected by Tunnel vision Voyeurism
Sick with a Spiderweb brain
Spinning from your imperfections.
You are so, perfect.

Artists come from all over
To watch the magic curtain.

Your Golden arching Back.
My Mustard Toes.

we all look at you,
even you look at you.
we do not Blink.
Just stare, position ourselves.
behind this curtain.

Our callouses grow like the black moss
bodies marble under ocean pressure
erode from the chill winds
Your archaic exhibitionism
Carved From Counting Gazes
Mustard eternally pondering
why our sillouettes, different colors
Drawn by the same moon,
Casted on the same cloth.

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.

"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!

There really isn't a reason to become complacent,
Don't worry about insecurity as there is no better time than now.
Regardless of what I am doing or what is going on there is always time.
What ever thought that attempts to pursue the angels from your shoulder.
What ever storm cloud that threatens the halo hanging above your head.
I'll be there to protect you in your time of need.
To reassure that the lightening you fear is just the sizzle of how comfortable my heart is, laying in the palm of your hand.
Though at times some thoughts will become mutual, just as I've been through some things.
I know you have too, and don't at all consider this a attempt to buy
or sway you of anything different.
Sculpting stone replication of you. Devoting my time making sure every feature is as close to perfect as possible.
What ever has happened before is just that, and would never constrict the blocks that I've placed around you to keep you safe.
Art takes on may a form and there will be no vandalism of any feature on you.
I admit, as each day grows shorter there is a high priority of what we make precious.
A small devotion of time stacked and organized to reach the height of eternity,
And with each day you grow more precious.
learning more about you. Stacking block against block until the realm of heaven is reached.
Seeing you for you and not just the hard exterior that you present to protect yourself from the world.
 
Choosing to instead loath in picture perfect representation of arms
Of the statue I've built of you.
Molding your smile in clay, soon to harden for all to see.
Folding your hands in ultimate prayer as the birds mock the many angels that float around your head.
Taking a minute only to rest in your arms, to continue building the rest of you
In due time.
Basking in just how precious you are

Her hair tangles in the wind,
Bodies hurl themselves at her feet, behold a Queen held high. A goddess.
The sun drowned in her smile,
welcoming the coming of her steps. A huntress vanishing into a corner of thought.
Her hair flies free, thankful with each step.
A celebration of the strands of hair that drop across her brow.
I gazed from a far, not realizing that I've lived my dream

I am statue
Standing guard
A silent sentinel
Slowly slipping
In to madness
Patience
My prized virtue
Has left me
Blind
I can't see
Broken
In pain
Screaming in my head
In vain
Be still my bleeding heart
I don't have much left

If you build a wooden statue of my father,
I will break it down to pieces to build a home
and light a fire to warm my freezing wife.

If you leave food offerings for my mother,
I will collect and cook them to provide a feast
that will feed my hungry son.

If you commemorate a pond for my ancestors,
I will draw multiple buckets to cleanse wounds
and offer water to my thirsty daughter.

If you ***** a golden statue in my memory,
I will instruct my predecessors to smelt me down
into small pieces and spread wealth to my family.

If you wish to remember good souls and actions,
celebrate them by giving to those in need.