I create using models fashioned of words.
Breathing Artist Breath
I’m constantly painting my insides and out
But not with mascara and rouge,
And I don’t ever redden my lips.
It’s rare that I deck my own body tree
Piling limb upon limb in garlands or tinsel,
And I’ve never dangled balls from my ears.
I haven’t once spent a fortune on togas,
Purchased in dress shops or searched for on-line,
And I’ve no interest whatever in wearing a fur.
But I do take delight in donning dyed words,
Adjusting their texture and color for match,
And curling their frolic around my tall tales.
I paint up a mountain with bouldered dilemmas,
Then assemble my models to stand in repose,
Artistically draped in my mood and my voice.
Thus, like a child, I sit playing with dolls,
Dressing them up with scenes and with purpose,
Breathing my breath in their lungs.
I mold dreams around them and tickle their interest
'Til they dance on my stage and act in my operas,
Flitting about my choreographed pages.
With the greatest of skill, I choose what I like,
Increasing the size or nipping the excess,
With a lift and a tuck, a smooth or a rip.
Thus, I’m constantly painting my insides and out
From the whispers within me and the stray parts of whole,
That beg for a sculpting from my palette of mind.