The artist is alone,

seeing as he does

the horrors that surround 

this world of his.


The meadows repulse him.

Beneath the veneer of green,

he sees only the mud.

And so he sequesters himself in his workshop,

making beautiful the things

he wishes he could see

oustide his own head,

by the garish sun.


He has been trying to resurrect the beauty

he is sure existed, once,

and he has succeeded,

with help.


Yet she is impure,

made a part of 

the dust of the road now

that he has touched her,

staining her marble skin

after removing his sandals.


He would perform the amputation himself

if he thought it might force him to stop;

Reject this blessing,

in favor of keeping her,

safe on her pedestal,

from the destruction he knows the dust brings.


This he knows. But still he touches,

each gesture laden with love

and loathing. 

He contents himself.

She waits.


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