Alyssa's Palette Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

Alyssa's palette,
A patrician relic
She holds it whilst singing
The errs of her derelicts

Alyssa's palette,
A maniacal paroxysm
Of such stifling beauty
Inside her eyes like prisms

Alyssa what is the secret
Of your palette that veers
To the caprice of the bluster
As it nonchalantly sneers?

Alyssa, you are a stellar night
That is painted picturesquely
Over the phenomenal sea of
Erratic scintillations.

Alyssa, if you hold your brush
As you stroke my surface -
You've rendered me defenseless
This acquiescence is mesmeric.

Alyssa, I am your canvas;
Paint me with your flourish -
I can feel your hues slither in a prolix
Taint - smear me callow and wan.

Alyssa can you feel my gravid breath
Pressing upon your blithe skin
As you paint me with your pristine aesthetic?
Paint me well darling Alyssa, in a lifetime.

And Alyssa, worry not, harried lass
If your oeuvre is besmirched with your blunders
Then let me be your final blunder,
Your only bungled magnum opus.

Put your heart to where you lackadaisically
Stroke your brush with your porcelain hand
Alyssa, I am unmoved while you garnish
Your eager enigma - I want to be your sole image.

I know you, of all painters, Alyssa
You are exhausted as you paint photographs
Of entities that refuse to be your favored weather;
Here, now, with a palette and a brush at hand

I beseech your invitation
To transform me into your final piece
My soul, my naked heart and being acquiesce
To your demand - I am the last of all there is.