That Muscle


The best part of art lies in the subconscious,

Not within the scrutiny of a scholar’s essay,

Not within the thoughts that the artist speaks to herself,

But within the very muscles of the hand,

Each slight tilt of the tongue which says

“Hear my experience!”

The body knows what the mind does not,

The body puts its soul into its art,

Pleading for the mind to perhaps catch up.

The muscle that pulls the sketcher’s wrist

Just to that very extent, that very angle,

The eye sees the curvature and line precise, yes, but that muscle,

That muscle gives its very own interpretation,

Refuses to play by the rules of accuracy

And shows its user the perfection

Of a life lived imperfectly.


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