| |

Picture Credits:
A Lady of the Evening, strolled by on my avenue;
She was way beyond believing, she was not like me or you.
I asked her: “May I paint your picture, nude upon a stool?”
(I promised not to touch her, just my canvas, nothing cruel.)
She answered: “Oh, bold sir, why me? What about me has appeal?”
I quavered: “Everything I see…there’s nothing that’s more real.”
She said: T’will be a hundred bucks - no whips or funny drivel.”
(Expensive for one down on luck, but who was I to quibble?)
We walked to my room down the street - a dingy, rooftop hovel;
Her linen pooled around bare feet, I stared, but did not grovel.
I sketched her bold in charcoals three, her breasts so pert and fair;
“Hurry now, I’m cold,” said she, while I prayed “Let down your hair.”
She posed for but an hour, as I painted all I saw;
Her visage growing dour, while I stood there rapt, in awe.
Oh, how I ached to hold her, but I put aside my lust;
My intentions showing bolder, could I forsake such trust?
Her smile wrenched my yearning soul, I could not bear much more;
She’d all I craved to make me whole, small matter she’s a whore.
Then, tragically, my portrait thru, the colors wet, but drying;
She’d dressed to leave, what could I do? Roof doves and I lay crying.
|
Help Us Stop Plagiarism -
Nearly all works at PnP are original. However a few people choose to plagiarize.
To check, choose a phrase from the work, then either drag and drop to the search box or copy and paste.
click on search and works at Google will be shown which match. Just to be sure, please do this before
you recommend or rate the work highly...
|
 |
|
|
|
Select a Random Work from Poetry
|
|