POETRY: Her Brush With Death


Her Brush with Death


©August 2013, Mimi Wolske


All Rights Reserved




It began innocently enough.


He said, “I’d love to paint you.” She smiled.


He posed her. She sat for hours. He sketched.


Day after day, indoors and out.




She oooed and ahhhed as his brushes worked;


Yet, there was a part of her not captured.


No amount of detail could replace what


He needed from his lovely model.




With a soft blues he stroked her cheek


And angled in touches of oranges


For strength and highlighted her


Red hair with streaks of greens.




Passionate purples caressed


Her breasts with each stroke


Of the master’s brush and thin yellows


Flowers decorated her filmy negligee.




As his hand brushed her femininity,


She found she’d given him her heart;


It was the one thing left to paint


And it became her brush with death.


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