You win, I lose

Oh thy artist, I have nothing on you
If you be the God, then I am the lonely wooden pew.

You sing, with open or closed eyes
Words that create images and melodies those pry

Intensely, in my lack luster heart, you create fires
Your voice, deep or shrill, waters my eyes

With your noticeably long purposeful fingers, you pluck strings
Or tangle with sticks, in a rhythm that resonates with us mortal beings

There is regulated mathematics, a definite order in what you do,
Yet as much I can try, I cannot repeat you, or that arrangement in two

As a painter, you ultimately color, draw or outline
But while you see a horizon, I can only spot a line

When I catch up with you on the horizon, you have already imagined a perspective
That will strike me as I stare, and decipher your subject elective

You boom on to center stage, even if the stage is partially lit
Fill me up with guilt of adultery when it’s your character that cheats

Or you speak a phrase with your dark black eyes, which sounds peculiar
But because you say it, I fall into the aisle, my eyes filled with laughter

And whilst I learned my trade, of mingling with wheels and machines,
You were born with your talent of broad strokes and c-major’s

To you I owe a bonus view of the same planet that I belong to
But because I can only follow you, it is imperative that you never do

Oh thy artist, I have nothing on you
If you be the God, then I am the lonely wooden pew.

13 thoughts on “You win, I lose

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