Picasso, Leonardo

Neruda, and Bukowski

They will all lose

And see

The real art from me.

I’m not referring

to my love-sick poetry

Or stories of

tragedy and insanity.

I’m referring to one thing,

Something only I possess

Even the moon, waxing and waning,

Will shy away and brighten less.

It’s the art of you,

It’s your gentle hue.

Your Mona Lisa soul

Defeats Picasso blue.

Museums can’t take you,

The galaxy and stars too.

Art to be kept so true,

In my heart you will certainly do.