The taste of fear lingers
In my mouth,
Turning the breadth warm
Against the wintry crowd.

A glass of whiskey
Studded with ice,
Covered with droplets
With the passage of time.

Pleading to let things go
Saying,
"It doesn't matter no more".

Strokes of paint,
Smudged over the face.
Hiding below it
The skin fades.

                The touch remains -
                That of a mother's hands
                Over her child's face.

For behind the canvas
Is where the art is,
And it's not up to us
To make a masterpiece.
But to try...
...Is what makes us artists.