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Friday, October 7, 2016

Unmasking The Artist I Met In The Park

By: Ymatruz | Filed under:

The masks behind every living artists,
of which small vents open up
            & give way for their eyes to peek
the souls of the dead,
    living in someone's eyes.

The artist's mask is not always dark
under the euphotic zone, nor dull
like troglodyte dwelling in the cave.

Breathing at the back of it
    a soul somehow beautiful.

Where the conflicts between the left
& the right hemispheres make peace
    willingly unlike the war.

A bit of unified sparkle colors,
depth of truth –
refuses to hibernate.

The accountant in her, silently finds
martyrs are born out of artists palms.
As she tallies the cost of creative
energies versus her tiny paper check.

“Touch me not”, says the artist.
Pay attention to my art.

An artist, a precious mother
giving birth to her twin crafts
she loves dearly like forever.

Except that her forever doesn't start
until her will stops rolling voluntarily.
Or death invents tool to stop her hands.

The cloudless sky serves as her canvass
& what comes out of the bottomless sea,
    her indelible oil pastel.

She will stay being an artist
as long as she never runs out
     –  of metaphors to eat

tomorrow, the next day
& the never ending days after that.

People walking along the pathway of Battery Park in New York.


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