In a room there is an empty canvas,
The artist is a lady; glamorous.
Yet once her heart was in captivity,
Her paint-brush dried and so ceased her activity.
She painted eyes, omitting the lies,
She painted lips, you would’ve wanted to caress,
You could’ve found yourself and become a mess
She painted scenes as dark as night or as bright as day
And she did it in her own definitive way.
Her movements were sinfully sensual,
Yet her work was naught but divine,
A mesmerising beauty with a paintbrush,
She was free, not yours or mine.
Yet while we thought she procrastinated,
She was in a reverie.
However rouse her not, for art is not a must, it is free.