Where Silver Tears Do Rust
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Strokes Of Desire < or > Portrait of a Fantasy...1993
There, in the stillness of a bitter cold winter evening, he sits.
Before him lays an empty canvas.
Strewn around the canvas is a rainbow of color, held prisoner within jars and tubes.
The brush that has cast many strokes upon many a canvas now rests clinched between his teeth.
It can no longer fill the empty canvas in his heart; nor can it satisfy the lust, the passion that burns within him.
in a moment of desperation, he opens the jars and tubes.
They flow freely upon his palette.
He closes his eyes and envisions a woman.
Though nameless, she shall inspire him tonight.
Thoughts of her engulf him and his passion bursts forth upon the canvas.
As if caressing her thigh, he paints with a slow, smooth stroke.
As his painting begins to take form, he casts his brush aside.
The thought of how she would feel guides his fingers and they become his brush.
A stroke Of color here.
A caress of shadow there.
The dab of blush that he adds to her lips and breasts Cause her to take life.
She begins to quiver with his every stroke.
She finds ecstasy in his touch.
His fantasy becomes her reality.
With his portrait complete, he sits back to admire his work and ponders...
Were they merely strokes of desire?
Or is it a portrait of a fantasy?...
L.A.MCNabb
13 January, 1993
Copyright © 2004 Lori Ann McNabb, All Rights Reserved
Written for a dear friend of mine. He often spoke of painting nudes in the cold of winter . While we no longer keep in touch, I often think of him.
Before him lays an empty canvas.
Strewn around the canvas is a rainbow of color, held prisoner within jars and tubes.
The brush that has cast many strokes upon many a canvas now rests clinched between his teeth.
It can no longer fill the empty canvas in his heart; nor can it satisfy the lust, the passion that burns within him.
in a moment of desperation, he opens the jars and tubes.
They flow freely upon his palette.
He closes his eyes and envisions a woman.
Though nameless, she shall inspire him tonight.
Thoughts of her engulf him and his passion bursts forth upon the canvas.
As if caressing her thigh, he paints with a slow, smooth stroke.
As his painting begins to take form, he casts his brush aside.
The thought of how she would feel guides his fingers and they become his brush.
A stroke Of color here.
A caress of shadow there.
The dab of blush that he adds to her lips and breasts Cause her to take life.
She begins to quiver with his every stroke.
She finds ecstasy in his touch.
His fantasy becomes her reality.
With his portrait complete, he sits back to admire his work and ponders...
Were they merely strokes of desire?
Or is it a portrait of a fantasy?...
L.A.MCNabb
13 January, 1993
Copyright © 2004 Lori Ann McNabb, All Rights Reserved
Written for a dear friend of mine. He often spoke of painting nudes in the cold of winter . While we no longer keep in touch, I often think of him.
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Strokes Of Desire Portrait of a Fantasy...1993
Strokes Of Desire Portrait of a Fantasy...1993