We sought to create a handicraft of expression unconditional. A Monet of understanding and Rembrandt bold impasto of achievement. Your impressionism intrigued me and your short stroked anger was never a misunderstood faction. We prepared for the endurance of a starving artist’s gift as I bought every tincture of emotion known to man Smocked my brawny pride and covered the floors of my center for protection. We placed bitter thoughts in a sieve Only to be retrieved once again in the near future. Waited with breath baited For your stroke of genius to maneuver Wield and build upon my waiting canvas You provided the young encouragement of Pisarro Laughing with vigor at my surreal attempts to control linking my efforts at romance to Dali. I dreamed in creation Michelangelo And saw the tip of your finger connect with God as you explained my “Enchantment” with the vitality of Renoir. My Temple was your muse . My Mind was an overused brush. Often you were interested only in uses of the obelisk in between your thighs and “The Embrace” of our Picasso In contrast to the importance Of this “Woman Reading.” Copulation seemed to be your diva A goddess called sex was your only outlet and inspiration. You could have long stroked a still life To the many tears I cried As we sunk to the level of passionate finger paints Much like a kindergarten novice. We were much too abstract and I now understand the light and shadow the me and you. In newfound cognizance No longer can I paint Create nor take part in A portrait worth a thousands words When your effort was not worth The one most important: LOVE.