Art lies in your hands,
a calligraphy of touch,
a guitarist who no longer
thinks of strings,
but the blend of melody.
You skirmish with death,
with faces, drowning
in their immortality.
Where am I they ask,
in their fragile stars
of blood and bone.
Can you read the destiny
of life and death
in my limbs?
As you move my arms
do you feel the firmness
of their tides?
I am dough out of which
a life was made.
What do you hear
in the hollow of my heart
beating for the millionth time?
How long is my life?
What is it worth?
But you are an artist.
You take contorted roots
and praise them for their anchorage.
You look in the paleness of eyes
and see the journey there.
I am the patient who loves you
for your patience.
The forbearance you show
at the misuse of my choices.
How hard it is to grow
when in the end I will be defeated.
My hope worn out.
Is there still joy
in the mystery of your
sometime patient
alert with life?
And as an artist
do you laugh and cry inside
knowing you cannot leave
the work you’ve started,
remembering as you work
what it was to be a child
when the whole world
took you in?