Part 1: Creation

I am painted mood,
Images from his world, considered in quiet recess,
Excesses discarded,
Soft strokes build shades and highlights,
Punctation measured,
Words dance to rhythm;
I become deep feeling,
When parts become a landscape in verse,
And fuse with light and shadow;
And then, I am floated into real space,
I show, I don't say,
The artist stays silent,
Faceless behind a still curtain.

Part 2: Creator

Who says words are to speak?
Words are wooden puppets,
They are only alive when I dance them to a tune;
They are the outlines of things,
They mean, only when I pour color;
Do you hear the music?
Do your eyes appreciate?
That's all,
I tell nothing - don't wait,
I won't draw the curtain.

And it is only a curtain,
Curious hands will find you a way in,
It is a little dark - evening turning into night,
But here, words speak;
We could talk the night through,
And if we walk long enough,
A hint of morning light might break;
I don't know,
I haven't walked that far for long,
It's too far to walk without conversation.