P 2: If I Were the Painting Picasso Made

A poem about Picasso's ethereal Old Man with a Guitar

If I were the painting Picasso made
of the old man in blue
cradling his guitar
with head bowed and eyes closed
at the moment of death,
and barely in texture of paint his shade
visible, leaving his body for places
unknown to me or you,
yet which most certainly are
more full and whole than we supposed
could be for us while we draw breath,
if I were the painting Picasso made
of the end of an artist, his last note played,
and soul now freed from frantic races,
then one last touch of string and heart,
one last note of precious art
I'd leave to hint of peace I'd found,
to let you know to where I'm bound,
then man, guitar,
shade, paint,
color and frame,
whatever of me that had a name,
I'd vanish.