Artist

Artist

Grace is not inherent in a line,

to hell with curve and plane,

leave it for the swine,

my honor is espoused to truer elegance,

the candied fingers who hold the brush aloft.

Leave me to watch these supple hands at work,

here is found the welling spring of grace.

 

Elegance you seek

in the carmine-wetted canvass,

blind to how the space divides the shape,

those who failed to worship crimson lips,

daintily were bitten in a concentrated raptness.

Keep your color theory, you may hang it,

leave me to my lush and supple elegance.

 

Value of this finished form,

do make your smug appraisal,

but where did it begin, poor soul,

have you missed the point again?

Leave me to those vibrant eyes

who dreamed up such a vision,

I value nothing short of this effulgence.

 

The greatest of the artistry before us,

is not found hanging on a pock marked wall,

but is locked away within a spotless heart,

the perfect brushstroke of deception

which ensures the artist’s solitude.

The neat application of delusion

that convinces us there can be no other way.

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