View from a Lens

I am a picture.

I am as
you choose to see.

In your choosing;
I am woman
to your lust.

And yet,

a youth
has not yet left
my body

and an old
but puerile need

has not
yet left my thinking.

In this youth,

I am a girl
twirling in
an un harvest field

or dipping my toes
into a Black Sea.

Like a child,
I am
feeling free inside
my innocence.

I am a picture.
I am the
noir still
that posters upon
your bedroom wall.

And yet,

my thighs
are ill at ease
and my hands
rebuff all longing.

In lieu of my
woman ardour;

I yearn

to deafened ears
for a wise wink of man,
tinkered
blinkered
with a
long drawn out embrace.

I am a picture.
I am
the object of
desire you seek
and keep
separate to your craft.

And yet,

I make
love
as a painter paints.

I kiss
of song
that remains un-written.

I spend
tears with
every breath
and touch

and my soul
absorbs the sensual male.

I am a picture
for those
who dare to see.

Alas,
I am
the carnal woman
touched only
by he who seeks
and sees
beyond the frame.