Thursday, April 5, 2018

An Apology in Lieu of Action

I've always wanted to marry an artist;
I haven't found another breed so simple
And by simple, I mean forward and honest
With a kind smile sandwiched by either dimple

Only the artist can give truth as truth;
How his mouth sags when he sings
How her freckles compliment her chipped tooth
How my face is fraught with suffering

Only the artist knows a face;
Or faces, rather, we have more than one
Another wrinkle to lengthen the trace
Or wrinkles, rather, I have more than one

On the page, the artist is the poet;
The snowy evening, fresh frost in her hair
Golden skin, summer and pleasantly sunlit
The descending blue, spring dotting her stare

Never underwhelming, but ordinary;
A quiet ordinary that doesn't hurt to be heard
Her cheeks bright with crimson cherry
From the sun, so sunlit, freckles blurred

The artist is honest;
As art is as life exists

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