She has an artist's soul--
Old and young,
Dark and light,
Subtle and blunt--
A strange
Yet straight
Combination of antonyms.

She breathes in adjectives,
Speaks in brush strokes,
Listens in choreography,
And feels in a minor key.

It is impossible;
Her hands are filled with syllables,
And her face casts characters.
She is a book.

It should be impossible;
Her eyes swirl with landscapes
And her lips smile with watercolors.
She is a painting.

It looks impossible;
Her hair is a waltz,
And her fingers tap on the floor.
She is a dance.

It seems impossible;
Her tongue is an arpeggio,
And her body moves in chords.
She is a song.

She is an artist
And the art.

But did she create herself?