The Artist
He applies the first deft brushstroke
To a blank canvas stretched upon an old easel
At first careful, then carefree
As something inside him is released
A piece of his soul’s jigsaw clicked into place
Shape, form and color, a message in acrylic
He will sell it for a dime to pay his rent
Only its true value appreciated
When he has passed on from this world
Leaving a part of his life, his memory
For those who come after to ponder upon
He lays down the brush by the easel
The painting completed, drying, transcending
A wordless epitaph declaring, “I was here.”
