The Artist Speaking To His Muse

"When, I paint" do I "dither" to control myself? So, I am, constrained, before I begin, our joint, fast. …Consumed… Holding back; from the tips of our tongues", The words we have longed: palpably to taste. Are you; consumed by my whelping - desires? When, I down pallete-knife - engaged in oil-fires. "Here on my canvas: are you not, a poet's muse" Do you not, aren't we not, invertible aflame - Within, these pages, as a smudged pastel nude? Could it be then, you're my lifetime's stoic muse? Are you soft, white-marble, like Venus de Milo? Do you - pout; without - giving out? I ask; who's been, overly, stretched… It isn't me. I'm just longing to paint.