My soul is imprisoned in an artist.
Recognition is the invisible inner gate.
I'm neither the best, nor the smartest,
so I'm unknown, though some of my work is great.
I look with the eyes of a child,
but I see as though time were mine.
I move calmly with my mind spinning wild.
Then only some feel the depth of each line.
Moments of inspiration rejuvenate me.
Suddenly a piece coughs and cries.
I see what Pygmalion could see,
my love and my pain harmonize.
Too soon my song fades away.
My creation stares blankly past.
Same story, yet another day.
It must, in some stone, be cast.
Then a star appears in my dark sky.
It's distant, and there's a message, but it's blurred.
I reach into my heart and give, one more try.
Many times I've thought, it's the Last Word.
W. C. Wampler
[ Last Word, Refocused, Everything + Nothing, Listening To Hot Lovers, A Blink, Timeless Writ ]