Masterpiece
To picture this:
the artist in her truest form:
Morning light in dusty shafts
nipping her wild hair to burn,
Turpentine fingers to print the palette
Dark sienna, aquamarine,
blues on a canvas with gesso skin
a favorite cd to play, repeat
Lips in quirky concentration
brushes to put behind the ears
and one faded shirt worn through in places
stained with love of hardened oils
vermilion, ochre and scarlet tint
Feet gone bare to feel the carpet
feel the wood and the tile too
Absorbing the sounds from the world around them
Setting the pace of the afternoon
Back on the verge of almost aching
Fingers gone stiff with emotion's glue
purging of soul to the owner's survival
covered with paint through and through
The truest form, of art or love
revealing on canvas communiqué
falls into the realm of the most asked question:
is the art or the artist the masterpiece?
Copyright © Tatyana Carney | Year Posted 2006
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