Where can I even begin in description?

  Most would venture forth an opinion beginning with first impression alone.

  Vain fools.

  The art of Gods must needs be examined by one with as good an eye as I, for mine eye,

  filled not with lies, flies true through the dry cries of childhood demise.

  Plain tools.

  They cannot possibly fathom the art that takes part in piercing mine heart like a dart.

  Regain rules.

  Circular oceans of the darkest chocolate,

  made to captivate me as a sailor to a siren. Left breathless, I have a need to avert

  my mind and eyes, for fear that the kind mind of this art would find my

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  Damn-near blind sign.

  Retain cool.

  The smile that this art was given would stave off the yawn that the dawn creates as you

  lie on the lawn discussing whether brain beats brawn, or whether Stones are better

  than Beatles in a Yellow Square Park.

  Remain under rule.

  Perhaps the most captivating, is when the art’s brunette tapestry waves in the wind as a

  sail upon a ship or a tide on an ocean. Ever time I bear witness to such a sight,

  my heart enters Fight-or-Flight though only choosing Flight for fear of

  Complicating the art itself.

  Cowardly shame.

  The Playboy currently owns this art and refuses to part with it, though rarely thinks or

  Cares for it. Being another object upon his shelf to forever radiate in every image

  or synonym for maddening and offensively provocative despair.

  One day, I hope that I may call this art my own. But while the Playboy continues to play,

  I shall continue to stay away until the day that I can pay the correct dues that not

  Even the playing Playboy can delay the ensuing dismay.