Artist At Work

Poetry

Only one canvas

over and over

colored by

different hands

of years passing by

of new eyes

gifted and cursed

by age.

Only one sky

.simple.

made by the

same observers

same sellers

and readers

simple

is everything

except the artist’s

throat.

Only one night

dark so dark

all the world

fell into its abyss/

it is not everyday

that word loses

its craftswoman.

Only one poem

the poet claims

she ever wrote/

not the saga

of red

but the color of

her grandmother’s

fleeing veil.

Only one place

of work of

art

merging their

half-souls

in half-poems

of love

too eager

to be written

too incomplete

to be held.

Only one God

screaming

and pushing

for the birth

of her only

creation

uncorrupted

by a vision

by the desperation

for truth.

Only one artist

knows

pain of waiting

one second of rain

cruelty of the world

in its eyes for gold

its violation of

the sacred/

also the key

to its salvation

its breath

in its nakedness.

Only one tear

of the entire world

in the green eyes

of the

mad artist

the starving writer

the holy sculptor.

~

Vaishali Paliwal

In response to the Prompt ‘Work’ by David S.