for i witnessed this death myself-and it brought my soul to life
“My painting is dead” he spoke
in all but falling to his very death
in hopes that the hour ends
painting beauty from such pain
where i see a man there up above  
as i do walk these floors beneath the ceiling
footprints soon shall walk the earth-the first time
she comes from rock-his expertise-forte
there in the sculptor's work
see what’s hidden
so study closer
only to the very genius of the painter
seemingly complete
and the story comes to life
like words on a page
whose creations escape surface
by a sculptor
a miracle complete
when the very eyes of Julius did witness
and i marvel at the moment there it time
? i wonder
what do they think of this
yet filled with existence-abundant
the room so silent-so still
holy, holy, holy, lord
the heart that fills with spirit
and so grasps the divine of depth within
the hands feel more than simply flesh
i see in clarity
the first time
of man
whose hand does touch the hand
so loudly to proclaim the word of God
with more than vibrant hues and tones
the craftsman there at work he spoke

spoke he
“I am not a painter”