O, Muse! What is sex but the most perfect art? Your body the sculpture, canvas, sounding clay?

Waiting for my nails to pull out hidden hues my hands to sculpt the curves breath moulding and setting the figurine Until finally it is finished, spent. And for an instant satisfaction is had until a small flaw is seen a piece untouched, unfinished, neglected. A thought left unexpressed a thousand pounds of desire still dangling precariously, forever. For love is made and kept near the heart but art is expression of creation it flows, unending, compiling and a muse is the object of that expression and the source, and the reason it ever was So amuse me or refuse me Either way I will never be satisfied I will never have moulded all of my flaws and I will never need another Peace is the stillness of the heart, Peace is the death of art.