An artist paints his life from mark to end, <br /> from mix to finish, like the pigment oils <br /> that while on painter's pallet blend, <br /> on canvas cling to boast the master's toils. <br />O see me through and find such painting plain, <br /> composed by introspection and long years <br /> of shock, of distant shores, of light, of pain; <br /> so with each dab some fuller portrait nears. <br />And though it were not trivial to frame, <br /> not trivial at all but love extreme; <br /> the misery of art is mine to blame, <br /> and gained by it, my muse, and by your theme: <br />No life, nor breath, nor other poet's art <br /> will ever bare so dear the likeness of your heart. <br /> <br />March 16,2006<br /><br />David Zvekic<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/font-color-880000-a-poet-s-art-font/
