I envy the artists
their mastery
of line and shape,
shadow and melody.
Color, language and light.

Trophy words,
aching to secure a place
in human discourse,
that subtly convey
haunting, graceful movements.



Words that transcend
the deepest realms
of our truths
the sureness
of thought, cunning in its deceit
crafty in its assignment
tenderly reminiscent
elusive of what is real
      and here
         and now.

The virginal canvas
void and unsullied.
Redolent of pain.

The makings of magic.

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