I commissioned the artist
To make me a saint
To laud me, exalt me
Pay homage in paint
Once it had dried
The canvas was bare
Despite all the brushstrokes
I was not there
I questioned the sculptor
The deftest of hands
If his skills could render
The highest demands
Assured of perfection
Exactness of form
And yet to his fingers
Shapes would not conform
I asked the composer
To craft me a song
A melody to which
Worthy tributes belong
Disjointed, subdued
With dissonance merge
The notes that instead
Composed me a dirge
I looked to my hands
With paper and pen
And asked of no one
To fail yet again
Though nobody saw
And nobody heard
I took quiet moments
To write down the word
Advertisements
