For I would never sin from these
Such words that would spoil the beauty
of your existence;
But if you requested such a crime, I’d argue
for remnants of your time,
And charm you as my fatal audience.
Of these things I would cite verbally,
Would be the origin of shape, gifted upon
Those curves that gave birth to the unpredictable
patterns of life,
Swaying the adoration of midnight flesh, into these
new testaments of woman.
How simply intoxicating is this craving?
To bear witness to chocolate unspoiled, as it lay
peacefully naked over maker’s canvas;
Let it not melt away, before millions can sample its
Perhaps art can be reborn from such stillness,
While wasted labels could fade into retirement,
Convincing the almighty to revise the structure of
And acknowledge this last miracle…Lupita.
What else could be molded from this paradise, but a
Queen’s thoughts and motives?
If there is nothing but truth in this crime, then I’ve painted
the solitude of heaven, perfectly.
Copyright © Jiril Clemons | Year Posted 2014
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