Poem 2

my paintings are but ashes of my art

the artist is hungry
to work
whispering in my ear
coy and beckoning, rolling around in candle light
it looks at me with those eyes
a temptress, I love her

the artist is hungry again
screaming for trees
and seeing things
all the spaces imbetween moments where truth and art and beauty lives
it is writing poetry on the walls of my being
I try not to read it

the artist is hungry again
staring off
creating places
to dance wildly in, masked and clad
it is always well lit and attractive
I clap for the performance