My buckle was tightened,
My hair pulled back.
The counting lowered
To a slower track.
It spit,
It moaned,
Then took off towards the sun,
Bringing me unknowingly
To Florence's most gifted son.
Haphazardly it crashed,
By a tree with a sputter,
And a poor startled child
Who gave a choke and a stutter.
My blood rose,
I crawled out,
In robes that were so
Immaculately made
Like a goddess would sew.
So I journeyed with grace
Across the sun kissed land,
Towards a busy town
That sounded proud to stand.
Bickering,
Singing,
In a stench of waste and wine,
Conditions in which
My own people would wine.
In a market of sorts,
I met my friend Leonardo,
Who sought about
With his pet cat Lombardo.
Rags,
Candle sticks,
He would aimlessly buy,
We greeted with smiles
As we passed each other by.
“Sono Signor da Vinci.”
He said through his beard,
The richest voice
That I had heard.
I assisted,
And learned,
In his bizarre eye,
And found he had a far
Sharper brain than I.
The man insisted that he
Could soar without wings,
And each day took part
In the most peculiar things.
“It is finished!”
“It is ruined!”
His passions were so great,
I could feel his frustrations,
And hear his teeth grate.
Then once,
With no mind,
I grinned at his temper,
Which made him glare-
The strongest one I remember.
But, he paused, and said
“Mona Lisa, give another?”
And I smiled once more as he lead.
Now in museums,
People crowd by the wall,
They notice my face,
And they tremble and fall.
“Her eyes!”
“Her hair!”
I always draw in a line,
Of inquiring tourists
Who struggle to align.
Now try as I might,
Though I had upfront sight,
His brilliance was too complex to site
On paper,
In art,
His soul,
It dripped
From every pore
And sought to touch
The mind much more
Than any genius
Known before.
