The Model and the Poet
Amidst the easels from which they hide their faces
I gaze at you, bared in all of God’s given graces
And wonder what goes through your mind while in steadfast pose
As they paint your soul in lieu of picturesque prose
I watch you watch me back– are your eyes on my blush?
Or you’ve noticed I alone do not wield a brush?
Is your muted smile a nod to my discomfort?
Or plain amusement in how i badly comport
The painters in the room paint, oblivious in zeal
Of that of you which you so willingly reveal
Beyond what they see you in front of them in flesh
Your eyes tell much, your smile much more, all but in mesh
Your words remain muted in their ignorant bliss
As they fret in capturing your soul quite amiss
It seems I alone draw the message of your smile
Or echo back the poetry of your eyes in guile
Tis ironic how you and I know each other
While the painters try to outdo one another
To put soul to canvas, the way their eyes see fit
Yet all but fail to witness your pretty heart’s wit
And I alone, pen in hand, paper on my lap
The outcast among kindred spirits in art’s trap
Know enough to know no paint nor word can capture
The feeling of knowing your soul in true rapture
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