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.