Nail Polish Polka

Everything forever a mystery.

What a wonderful thing adding to a colour – something to mean.

A brush upon pearlescent.

Surface so pure.

An aesthetic to please none but the weary pools of lost endeavour.

 

Coy it becomes.

The glimmer of her smile across a place

that captivates so

this humble servant of written word.

Another stroke of nine to go as one is left so perfectly to cure.

 

Moments not even left for gone had determined this colour upon

a place where I long for mine to ever clearly be.

Touch.

The bristles sway as she controls its wash.

Moving with grace a lifetime may see never perfected, this artist does.

 

Eight to go and time stands still.

Again she looks and sees it right

enough to shift her gaze and with a slight adjust

the brush to colour another must.

 

Trivial a thought this pattern be.

For one as amazing and careful as she,

the artist drops to seven as bristles they seem just never quite right to be.

Colour this darkness true

as black and things for her it just

doesn’t seem to rightfully do.

 

A beige, a natural more reflective face

she opts for them to have.

Subtle she decides to be.

They sway slowly from side to side, this artist and her five.

 

A lover’s choir in the auditorium

of brush and subtle colour.

Just to dry and then to bed, she looked across to him and said.

Just to dry and then to bed.

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