The Allure of Flesh and Art

In the snow,
winter white,
no fairy tales to be told,
she's a nightmare to boys
who haven't had their first
and a wet dream to those who thirst
for ink to fill their flesh.

A walking canvas
that will one day rot
like all of the other great art that's been hung
in galleries for years;
stared at like a gravestone
with whispers of remembrance.

We're addicted
to the act of expression;
art wherever
we can get a fix.

Paper, or flesh,
one carries blood loss and pain,
the other only ink.