An artist paints his life from mark to end,
from mix to finish, like the pigment oils
that while on painter's pallet blend,
on canvas cling to boast the master's toils.
O see me through and find such painting plain,
composed by introspection and long years
of shock, of distant shores, of light, of pain;
so with each dab some fuller portrait nears.
And though it were not trivial to frame,
not trivial at all but love extreme;
the misery of art is mine to blame,
and gained by it, my muse, and by your theme:
No life, nor breath, nor other poet's art
will ever bare so dear the likeness of your heart.
March 16,2006
David Zvekic
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/font-color-880000-a-poet-s-art-font/
