Ode to les Artistes

To find peace, fulfillment

that is all we have asked

to quiet the wind inside our ears

we channel it through our fingertips

how to scratch this itch with no focus ?

the work-

the work must be done

we have no other choice.

Who ever asked for this gift ?

Many have sought to

touch the fabric of the One

many have sought to know the light

to be the light

to see beauty is it is, as it should be

that is why they love us

why they want to be us-

Well, it has its price, this gift.

So strong is this impulse within

that without expression it gnaws

at the core like some fevered animal

who will chew its way out

if it has to.

There have been some,

so full of the light

it would burst forth

from their seams,

tearing holes through their minds,

afflicting their hearts

had they not translated it

and even when they have tried,

some have gone mad in the process

driven to lust, violence, ceaseless self loathing

we have felt like frauds,

we have been tormented by notions of inadequacy

because sometimes no matter how hard we try

we cannot reconcile the vision

with the work

how can you translate perfection

through the corrupted medium of flesh?

It is both a life and a means of survival

a blessing of torment

so that those who are not so strong

can try to identify with the complexion of the divine-

so that men of the flesh

might renounce their lives as vulgar

perhaps just a taste of ambrosia

is all most palettes can discern

and those of us who have been touched

can continue to pass the spark that fires our souls

so that you may be ignited

so that you may know the nature

of that which forever surrounds

but cannot be touched