The Last Bow

My paint brush is dry,
Sucked all its lifeblood
By the luscious pages
Of her vast bare buttocks.
Oh how I'd paint,
And paint. And paint again.
Long were the nights
That trickled down into dawn,
Awash with my psychic urges.

I remember how on this night,
Under a moon sky full of stars,
I drew her body in  raunchy  contortions
And with every stroke of my paint brush,
Created the perfect picture of myself.
Out of the folds of her blurred lines
Came my most valued work of art,
A priceless masterpiece.