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?