Stoke the Fire

They say a picture is worth a thousand words
But her portrait must be twenty
Twenty thousand words
Introspective and ethereal
Robust and sultry

Intricately chaotic words and
None find their way to my mouth
Nor through brushed lips
As brush tips kiss canvas
Life slips within colored lines
Once confined by four corners but
Liberated by the wings of an artistic mind
Crowned by hair that spills down like rubies in a waterfall
Eyes, glittering like city lights at midnight
Dance across the details of her work and
The dips where lips meet cheeks turn up a fraction
There is a ballroom where the sun dances with the moon
Along the edge of her satisfied smile

Elegant but unyielding
Supple but fierce
A silk tigress
When the day sleeps, she is what it dreams of
When the shadows slink out, she is the light they play by
Art given form giving art
An ourobouros of creative majesty
Stardust in her paints and
A universe with every stroke she makes

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