it is me
and not me
its rough wooden handle,
dips low, lower, lowest
into the cool cool paint
slowly it comes out like a lover caressing the others skin, wipes against the clear bottle
it touches the paper
like a big wet kiss
immediately it turns to something new
it makes the thoughts into reality on the dead paper
the brush is no longer a brush...
it is my hand....my extended hand
no longer in its inanimate form
instead it is a being of innate thoughts and creativity
it stops
its done
it touches its child one more time, just to make sure it is perfect
and slowly I lay it down
cold and hard again
but its ready, its ready
to become a being of power again.