Wednesday, February 16, 2022

An Impotent Artist

If poems could heal, I would pen a few lines,
They touch, they scrape, they pierce at times,
Wading deep inside, leaving no recesses behind,
When forced to come out- they pay in kind.

If songs could soothe, I would sing you a note,
They wake you from slumber, breaching the moat,
As walls close around, you have nowhere to hide,
Erupting from beneath- they take you for a ride.
 
If stories could give hope, I would craft a scene, 
They speak, they give shape- to a myth that is mean,
Focused on the quest, with all blurring in background,
The blind answering the call- they move round and round. 

If art could create magic, I would wave a wand,
And paint a sweet picture, with your hand in my hand.



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