The Artist

THE ARTIST
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The flourish, the glance, the raised eyebrow
Eyelids that droop, barely masking icy eyes
Your set raised chin, your arms akimbo
To surrender or
Perhaps to welcome
The burning earth’s release of
Long departed ghosts
The wisterial scent of the good
And the miasma of evil

Who am I?
Just an anonymous Leonardo
Let me sketch
With pencils drenched in sorrow
Throbbing curves, shaky lines
On a canvas of boiling water.

You turn and look with scorn
A torch burns into my soul.

I am nothing.