THE FIRES OF DEVOTION
In the hush of twilight, where shadows weave,
she lingers, the artist’s hands poised to create,
a quiet pulse beating beneath her ribs.
He waits, his eyes aflame,
a whisper of longing carried on the wind,
but her devotion is tethered to the canvas to make.
His presence stirs the embers of crush ‘n’ regard,
a warmth she cannot deny,
yet her soul is called elsewhere up high –
to the silent language of color and form,
to a world where touch becomes creation,
where whispers of fervor belong to her work alone.
She feels the pull, the hankering of love,
the amorousness of a heart set ablaze,
but art’s call is relentless –
a river with no shore.
Her fingers hold brushes like prayers,
each stroke a vow she cannot break.
Between them lies a fragile truth –
his devotedness, a steady beacon,
her piety to her craft, unwavering.
She feels his ache, his yearning hands,
yet she cannot meet him there,
for creation demands the whole of her being.
Oh, the zeal that binds her to this purpose,
the flame that burns brighter than love’s touch.
It is not rejection but surrender –
to something vaster than herself,
to beauty pulled from her bones,
to the quiet agony of making.
And so she stands, rooted yet torn,
a woman who loves,
a soul that creates.
Her art, her heart, both flames in the dark,
but only one can consume her fully,
only one can set her free to depart.