Paint Me a Purpose

If He can paint music,
words,
eyes, lips, nose,
surely He can paint her a fire.
He could paint her rosy cheeks
And say,
“These are my hands
holding your head high”
She would nod and

embrace the fantasy.
She would stand
on His easel,
linger in His masterpiece of
Purpose.
He could paint
Road to Unknown,
she would follow,
trusting.
He designed
slender fingers;
she touches
His heart.

He sketched joy
inside her ribs,
rested in her lungs,
in her throat.
She would sing with
His orchestra,
laugh at His jokes,
gaze on
His dimples,
deep eyes,
broad shoulders.

They walk always, Lover and Loved, a weapon for Future and shield against Past.
She burns with something.
Passion, anger, grief,
always something.
He is there.
Then, now, soon,
always there.

I fight,
always fight, to stretch my arm
longer,
find His other hand,
and hold on
hold on,
tug on His paint brush and beg.
Paint me, Sir, paint me!

If He can paint her music,
words,
eyes, lips, nose,
surely He can paint me a fire.