How does one love an artist?
Between the swirls of his brush strokes;
a jumbled collage to the untrained eye,
but a masterpiece to the one who sees
the colors beautiful reflecting his soul.
This is the delicate intertwining process
of how to love an artist.

Here is their masquerade,
a false self on parade.
No truth in their eyes,
a mask to conceal the lies.

Buried behind a painted face,
the truth they work to erase.
A carefully chosen facade,
words to hide their fraud.

My words convey the
deepest feelings
from my revived soul.
With every pen stroke
I bridge the chasm
between me and the blank
pages, my meanings
crossing over to dwell
between the lines of ink.

Sometimes the middle of the night wakes in me, and I can do nothing but lay adrift in the light of the moon.

She walks in beauty like the night
     moonlight shadows and starry skies.
A soul of wonder beauty and light
     all reflected in her smile and eyes.

The calling song of summer moonlight
    all soft and still it steeps the air.
Approaches the solemn hour of midnight
    breathes sweet thoughts everywhere.

There below the trees and wild bowers
    soft light o’er her glowing face.
Green grass and dew-steeped flowers
    all witness to her nameless grace.

So soft so calm with tints that glow
    tell of her days as a goddess spent.
On her cheek and o’er her brow
    kisses sublime from a heart innocent.

A full moon apart
since she want away,
a broken heart
ever since that day.
Lonely the night
I count the days,
nothing feels right
since she went away.
Another full moon
now a year to the day,
too many full moons
she has been away.

Some people just read the table of contents
to my story. Others jump to the chapters that
interest them. Then there’s the ones who fold
the corners of my pages and keep the book.