The artist’s heart

Is a place of worry;

Each dampened eye

Reaps justest glory.


The artist’s hand

Is a place of regret;

Tis filled with lies

At every need unmet.


The artist’s mine;

The lonest of lones—

Easily hypnotized

To return home.


The artist’s arm

Is tired still—

From every time

She’d fallen ill.


The artist’s leg 

Walks in solitude;

Passing the grocer

But not buying food.


The artist’s eyes,

And nose—and tongue

Shall breathe revive

And drink life’s rum.


But, of all the things;

An artist’s soul—

Is a millionfold greater

Than you know.



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