Artist’s Lament~by Scot Buffington

 

 

Artist’s Lament
4/4/2018

There exists no rarer form than your heart’s
own singular, mystical genre of art
one true connoisseur of loving may view
privileged alone to see that part of you.

No arcane prose can closely describe
words with the pens with which poets inscribe
upon poor lines, cheap foolscap bare
bereft what evocative quatrains share

While sculptors stare at marble blocks
with baited chisels, mind gridlocks
no mallet blows may make them talk
your heart cannot be found in rock.

A pallet full, stretched canvas plain
the bundled hair on sticks remain
dry of oils, tints, and glaze
bewildered master, forlorn amazed.

Composers of orchestral scores
can find no key nor time as yours
no instrument of brass nor strings
may mimic how your heart-song sings.

All maestros lack creativity
baffled in objectivity
no accepted medium does justice impart
nor articulate intimate your beautiful heart.