Long Portraitist Poems

Wedded, 1882, Frederic Leighton

I trace the blushing texture
of smoked allure 
 with aching fingers,
fervent and blue ~
inhaling the intense incense,
       exhaling the iron thorn
of love sabotaged
for I feel your hands ferociously
roaming my flawed frames
eager to taste the fragments
of the sunrise you seek
in hues of hostile gold...
while the tales within 
   your eyes reveal 
   the truth of my tongue 
           twirling and teasing
   colors of confession
and amethyst reveries
stroking the weight of want
in soft butterfly ink blooms
kissing your fears 
          into fluorescence 
bringing your armored spirit
to kneel at the altar of attachment,
glued to the crimson of craving,
as an inamorato trembling ~
struck by the fever of fixation...

there is no escape, O beloved 
            from this inexcusable
   intoxication of passion ablaze... 
longing has no logic to philosophize
     and  you are now sitting
imprisoned as an impassioned
Antony’s portraitist
       upon Cleopatra’s pedestal
   wedded to the edges of infinity ~

a torn canvas is two paintings
oblivious to the galleries of grief
as healing hums through walls
that feel the melodious mists
falling like rain of rippling roses
     pulling and pushing nevermore
but soaked in the dews
of quivering seconds
    tuning time through heartbeats...

we are dreamers of what would be
if the acrylic carves wounds
into an ineffable masterpiece
the dawn never asked for more than
           a constellation 
untouched and unmoved by doubt 
the sun never questioned 
        the sands of sorrow 
so melt these tears 
              into your sweet fire ~ 
   breathe my demons  
               into your warm sky
release all resistance 
you are no longer trapped, but free
in the arms of undeniable moonlight
engrossed in the perfumed spell 
                 of wild heat ~ 
there is no threat in deep devotion;
love blossoms
as a sketched sanctuary
         of softened colors and trust…