I place mine gently upon her delicate hand,

Gliding it across the canvas.

Her eyes lay intently upon me,

Memorising my everything.

Strokes of oil decorated the dull canvas,

As I loosened my grasp, giving her control.

I am an observer to her unwavering beauty,

She holds the power.

Under the pale moonlight,

My heart begins to desire.

No longer do I observe,

Rather I lust upon her cherry lips,

Rather I gaze upon her pale hands now tainted with paint.

Under the pale moonlight,

Hidden away in the old greenhouse,

Time halts.

No longer am I here to teach,

Rather my soul is burning with passion.

Is this what the poets talked about?