Somewhere, there's a frame
hung with an empty canvas,
missing its Old Master,
and I have some idea where he is.
I never thought I'd know someone
who, when he gets worked up,
forgets he's not a painting.
For I know someone
whose voice and eyebrows carry thunder,
one whose eyes shoot lightning sparks of fire.
And just as you never quite know what'll set him off,
so you don't know what'll be razed to the ground,
for his eyes, they glitter,
be it with rage or inspiration.
He has what the ancients spoke of
when they told their stories
of the old gods and the power that they wield.
Those old masters make me wonder,
did such people ever really exist,
or did they make them up inside their heads?
Did they know their work would resonate
across the ages and across the lands?
Sometimes I check for flecks of paint along that noble brow,
or for chips of marble on those shoulders,
for all my life has ever taught me
is that such men do not exist
but on canvas or in stone.
Somewhere, there's an empty pedestal
whose statue has stepped down and out,
and waits for the day he makes his way home.
But somehow, I'm not sure he ever will.