Muse of Mine

You love to paint.

You teeter on the line between

Hedonism and Asceticism

with every move of your fingers

each shape you make in the clay

of human skin

Exemplary to the world of art

yesterday a sculptor

a face painter today

tomorrow a landscape

of blue and purple and green

red lining the circle 

of my wrists

a Listless muse that gave up

the world for a painting

and a Poet

gracious words and soft pictures

dancing around this Muse

your musE

before they turned harsh

and horrible

with cold hard cash falling hard

out of the green grass 

I so coveted

The purple and red

stain against my skin

no longer with the shine

I so loved

It’s not paint stains anymore

They hurt to the touch

Silver curves my hair

in the photographs you snap

but silver stays taught

and bruising on my ankle

blood serves as red acrylic

in a scene that sold

for too much.

So much, 

for the price of a human

The paintings you craft are no longer beautiful

And now you know why I can never leave.