It Drips Milk For Only You

It is so blind, it saw eyes, mouths, bodies, feet imploring it's paint, it's beggars land, stroked by hand. It's can, faceted as one gem, drips only you. The brush peels back, stroke by stroke, layer by layer, new always differed you. Each canvas, some happy, some mad, still it's always you, is to Regina's sun. The brush of lips, still trembles it, invitingly...why? Lips brush the stroke, you make the paint, wants why? The canvas is always full of different you, asks it, is it not? Respectable mirror to try on in you..why not? It laughs at it's self, seeing a growth on it, so boss. The rose drips, it is painted to it's natural blush, as it's meant to be. It is a struggle between the rose and it's blush, it's a grippe so tight, the colors run at times, on it..you still laugh amused. It just cannot, as much as passion flames it's eye, be reduced to frame, you in the boring same tired, eyes of it is. When every woman is her, she a Queen. Google poetry James McLain