The Artist's Joyous Lament

Splotch of paint on canvas

The bristles of the brush

My pencils, pen, and palette

Implements of creation

Tools I use to make my world.

Each line on my paper white
Reflects each thing I see

I paint, I draw, I think of 

Each image which comes to mind

Words are nothing, just a blur

Transformation is the key

Translation of the syllable

Into one long stream of color

The beauty of the love

The splendor of my reality

All swirl into one another

Smiling, I paint again my life.

...

Suddenly, I breathe in sharp

In my bed yet one more night

The dream has passed,

Now once again is gone

I stumble out of my covers

The warmth of sunlight just a mem’ry

To the mirror, I stand cold and tired

Looking into a soul too old for the youth

But then, one image comes to me

And laughter bursts forth from my chest.

These are the days of remembrance

These are the days when each breath

Has a value, each day has a reason

For what is perfection, what can it be

But something mundane, monotonous?

Time without measure knows only itself

Pain and suffering, these make me real

Scars give me power over the world.

Because some scars never heal

But stay to remind us of what we have.

I look around and all I see

Are objects which make me flash back 

To what I left behind so very long ago.

The wind can howl, the storm can blow

I relish in my reverie, for only I can see

The color of what is, what has been, 

And the possibility of what will be.