Friday, August 20, 2010



One swirling, starry night in Bethlehem,

Plucking out an eye, rather than an ear,

Could have been a prophet, priest, or poet;

But, enraptured by patterns and pictures

Of airy canvass, instead seek palettes

In pastel-plastered hands of the divine,

Molded in reflection by the longing

Stirrings of compassion and resentment;

I march underneath the Arc de Triomphe

Of the mind: submerged somewhere deep in time

Lies the glimpse of passion in my paintbrush,

Some speck of love and trauma in my eye -

A lust for wonder that can never die;

Yet the greatest of us can only cry,

While grief remains of all these the greatest,

Highest joy in this transitory world:

Since change is the one medium of love,

My brush flickers: embers burning boldly;

Their glow reveals the beauty of the sky,

As seen by those who steal a glimpse and sigh.

- Teleprompter


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