O heart. What do you see at the heart of art?
Is it a gaping hole or the whole in a part?
What is it that moves you so and how?
So much so that to you the head must bow.
O heart. What do you see in an artist’s heart?
Is it ever whole or forever a damaged part?
What is it that drags you there?
Even though a part of you knows it will be too much to bear.
O heart. Is it the challenge of fixing his heart?
Or just the lure of being the subject of his art?
What is it you see of use
In being his ephemeral muse?
O heart. Are you still of me a part?
Or are we suddenly drifting apart?
What is it I hear distantly humming?
Is it the inevitable rift I feel coming?
O heart. Are you still mine if you belong to someone else?
Is this the kind of pain that slowly dulls?
What is it that is worth your ache?
Let go sometimes, at least for my sake.
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