Some artists craft
In clay and stone
Others wield paint, and pencil.
The empty space is filled with notes,
As four walls stand to shelter
Life.
I’ve been honing the craft
Of carving
Perfect hearts
Made of gold and inlaid with rubies
And pearls,
From lead.
Only
I am not the artist.
I am merely
A tool.
Lifeless
I lie and wait in the studio.
The Master comes in
Drinking espresso enlightened with the
Milky Way
Scratches and pauses for a moment
Lifts me up.
A blade so sharp and precise
Nothing can withstand the
Cuts.
The work is laid out
The implements
Beyond imagining
All laid out,
Too.
Crafting a perfect
Human heart
Requires more than just sulphur,
Ash and mercury.
Sacrifice and surrender
Of human life
Is the secret
Profane
Ingredient.
This is why you must learn to
Die
While your heart
Still beats.
He who dies
Before he dies
Doesn’t die
When he dies.
He
Never
Dies.
So give up now,
I say to myself.
Give up the praise, arrogance,
Vanity and illusion.
Splinter your little raft
And go sailing
On your body
In the deep black ocean
Of mystery.
