Your Art

Your art, my eyes fascinate over The detail so plenty, my focus, undecided An inspiration for it, I fail to find An inspirer, has it become. My first glance taken, intrigue built Paint or pastel; bewildered I am left Art at its finest, I concede Your marks, deceptive of your youth. Commend you do I, to soon for your efforts Your work incomplete, told; unnoticed My eyes revert to its previous indulgence Beauty defined, seen; an artists' mind exceeding the viewers. Repetition a joy, not a task An admirer I have become, awaiting the last stroke.