The Waning Artist

“It seems that her final piece was not just a thing of magnificence, but prophecy;”

Brigid Donahue

She was inspired by the moon.

Just as spring was beginning to bloom,

She sat outside in the cool night chill

Gazing out to the stars, trying to calm the growing trill.

It was gracious of the moon to shine in its brightest phase,

For she was stuck in a murky haze,

Every painting had a piece of her heart, her very soul–

That is what is required to make a masterpiece whole.

It is a sacrifice she has made on many accounts

And as her time drew near, her artist title she was ready to renounce.

 

So this wasn’t the cause of her dark trepidation,

But instead the decision of what to make new in her unique pigmentation.

Does she choose a vast meadow with pinpoints of vibrant color,

Or the smooth curve of a humming bird mid-flutter?

Does she recognize the steady coolness of the mundane

Of heads huddled inside, finding a haven from the rain?

Or will she open her arms to the pain of human sorrows

Of loving todays and fearing for tomorrows?                              

 

The questions hung heavy on her nearly desolate heart,

And she began to mourn the pieces of her soul, and how far they were apart.

To her paintings she gave her being with joyous gratification,

But humanity will trample and plunder her sympathies for their own satisfaction.

They have stolen each piece that she has poured out,

And of her unworthiness they scream and shout.

How could one create something in a world willing for devastation;

Where they care only about your rank and station?

 

She wanted to remember these cruelties and turn her back on the horror,

But at the last moment her eye caught on the reflected solar.

It was the glorious glow that brought her back

The wondrous incandescents that the world, no matter what, never seemed to lack.

She’s always been told she has an eye for beauty,

And it seems to be true still in a subject so unruly.

She could never condemn the tragic grace of mankind,

How they struggle to survive and love fiercely, even if it is poorly timed.

She has reached her resolve and sets out to begin the project;

Looks up toward the heavens and the moon seems not to object.

While it has been made quite clear that the Earth can not hide its splendor,

When she goes to take the first stroke she is looking not at the foliage abound, but into a mirror–

 

Into her own eyes she sees the depths of the cosmos

And at its core, there is the simplicity of a rose.

Inside herself she finds the truest brilliance;

After all the loss she sees that her soul has shown resilience.

Brush after brush the image becomes more striking,

For the first time the work was created just for herself no more heartbreak or fighting.

It would be the last time she felt the bitter sweet sense of a creation,

But now as the final fraction of her soul was flecked through the painting there was only adoration.

The painting stayed behind to be claimed like the rest, but she did not mind,

She was lifted through the sky swirling past her beloved hues and into the undefined.

It seems that her final piece was not just a thing of magnificence, but prophecy;  

She spread throughout the star studded tapestry and was reunited with her soul, the

impossibility!

In the night sky she will be missed, an artist of such high degree, ah

But it is where she belongs for her name was Luna.

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