Poetry

This slave wishes to share some of her poetry.
It's nothing special just little pieces of her feelings and inspirations that found their way to random bits of paper..


The artist
He decorates His pale canvas with sure, swift strokes.
A Master of His trade, this artist.
Focused completely and entirely self disciplined,
His work is breathtaking.
Stripes of color in different patterns, some light, some dark.
Others lined neatly in a row, the rest crossed and intertwined.
They leave such an interesting impression.
Reds, bright crimson blood, burning like fire.
Blues, of the deepest, darkest ocean.
Purple, like a bruise, or a sweet ripe plum.
Yellow, wild dandelions in fields of green.
Sometimes if the dark mood strikes,
the almost black of a stormy night sky.
All of these He flows together seamlessly,
part practiced perfection, part gift.
He can create something beautiful, with just about anything.
No brushes or pencils touch His work,
He prefers to choose His own tools.
Few ever get to see this art, they just wouldn't understand.
For its still too far outside the norm.
Still He creates because it pleases Him, not for any type of recognition.
Contemplating His next design with a smile,
Master wields His implement with skill.
His swings land flawlessly to the cries of His slave,
and the appearing marks are exact.
A soothing hand to steady, on her trembling side.
The touch of His love tender and rough.
she leans into Him happily, breathing quickened, flushed.
And with a devious grin He draws back thinking,
"It was a dark and stormy night...".