The oils evoke her soul upon palette
Her frame entwines betwixt the stroke and paint
His eyes, they dine upon hues rich banquet
She dances, smudging canvas; no restraint
He's blind through wanton fever's bright spectrum
Pigment tinges ambience of portrait
Her tones, they lift the pitch like an anthem
His fervour brewed, tempera permeates
Toxic tinct imbrues his quivering hands
He, undeterred, works on; she is his muse
They clash, her green and sanguine ribbon strands
With artistry, her attributes they fuse
Is she made from his imagination?
Or did she inspire in him creation?