I wasted time deliberating,
that was blatantly obvious.
With persistent search
I wasted time reading and writing.

The many colors of paint
dry on my hands
The truth is rarely needed.

I'm sure the artist knew.

The poet and the pain
the painter and the brush
words underlined in black Gothic ink
the wax dripping from the flame

a single file line
all in smiling poverty
divided, conquered.

When understanding is so clear
the truth is rarely needed.

I'm sure the artist knew.