Of Writing / Of Violence

First I looked upon a painter as she placed her mark
«with this portrait I have captured / every essence of the gestures
That comprise the human soul / and for eternity / every blessed eye will see»
But many who would look just searched for some representation
Of the forms they thought were beautiful or true or simply pleasing
But mostly they would offer just a glance and their appraisal
«this isn’t art to me / there’s nothing here to see»
And so they turned away / leaving the canvas blank
For their critique to paint / the rest of history
Next I came across a writer pouring prose to page
He said «this pen could move a mountain / with a simply structured couplet
Anchored by a clever rhyme» / and quietly he tried / but no words came to mind
And suddenly he shook from recognition that his silence
Was more moving and more beautiful than any verse it rivaled
And each word that dared to pierce it was proclaimed an act of violence
Toward the signified / that his pen hoped to find
But then his lips burst wide / breeched by the aching pride
That made him loudly cry / «there's nothing left to say»
Next I chanced upon a sculptor with a trembling touch
She said «patience is a virtue» / as she chiseled out the likeness
Of a body she had seen / once in a magazine / how beautiful it seemed
But every fleck of stone she chipped away revealed beneath it
Something further from the truth of what that image kept repeating (insisting?)
Until she’d left herself with nothing but a pile of dust and gravel
Scattered on the floor / uglier than before
«still I will someday craft / what God’s hand surely can’t
Something of permanence / an idol to adore»
Last I heard a lone musician grasping six bronze strings
«with these chords I’ll surely bind her / or at least send a reminder
That the wounds that made her deaf / will cease if she is mine / this melody’s
divine»
But little did he know that the ascension of the spirit
Of his song had taken place before her earthly ears could hear it
‘til it reached its final peak above the sky but short of heaven
And it just lingered there / a phantom in the air
To ever haunt his life / and every song he writes
Will bear the awful price / of being born for her