I can see it so clearly, now
in the silver current of the river
I remember a woman so vibrant
a living prism
that shattered light into a multitude of colors
when the sun broke free of the clouds
She was an artist, you see
her world was of red, and blue, and sea foam green
and bring them together in harmony
like Monet, Michelangelo, Divinci
when she could break free of the clouds
She understood the collective unconscious
it spoke to her, as it speaks to all
who sing the words, write the script, dance the dance
with the flick of her wrist should conjure images
when her mind was free of the clouds
Yet, the sky was often overcast
a mesocyclone dulled her afternoon
and faded the pallet so richly hers
and brought storms with wind, and rain, and hail
the clouds cast shadows she could not break away from
There is a certain weakness artists share
a flaw of sorts in our matrix
an unquenchable desire to connect
and the ability to hear all of humanity
so when a strong guiding light shines it can distract us
but all that glitters is not gold
and though the clouds may gather, it does not mean rain
We are artists because God is an artist
no longer do you fragment the light
that comes from the firmament
and though your brushes may lay still
you are the light that burns forever
they day you broke free of the clouds