An Apology.

I tire of speaking.

The words cease to flow

And every day as corrupt as the last.

I am bleeding myself in the name of Art,

The poor medium squeezing the lungs

The Life.

A musician carries you upon dark wings

Bridging the heart

Dredging wild memories from the depths of the mind

And all without a word

Pushing its way through meagre lips;

A beggarly attempt at sharing humanity.

A dancer flows with lived poetry,

Real poetry,

Echoing rhythms from within,

Each gesture a thought,

Vague, fictitious, and yet, hyper-real.

Each act is creation itself.

A painter

Translates the very essence of experience,

Puts it before the eyes

In a myriad of colours as brilliant as the soul

As black as the soul,

Mirroring reality itself as seen through his eyes,

A Portrait of the Universe in Human form.

But I, who in my craft is made lame,

Incapable of subtlety, heavy handed as the drunk,

Reeking of fingers pointed at the moon,

And your eyes

Pried wide open, screaming ‘Look!’,

Can but envy such art and the power to move.

Through them we feel the human soul,

The Love, the Light,

The Grief, the Pain,

And the golden hands that made them so.