The Master at Work

I was only six when I began.

My mother' warm tears,

Falling upon my face when

she believed I was asleep.

Her loving hand rubbing my back,

Praying for her imaginary friend

To take away her child's pain.

The knowledge that I was breaking her heart.

This is what drove me to perfect my craft.

I've heard that art mimics life.

I understand the literal truth.

If they recognize a smile

On an old piece of canvas,

Would they believe the same

On the face of a child?

Could the colors of life,

Really hide the emptiness inside?

Could the mask, disguise the darkness?

I learned to sculpt,

I learned to paint,

I became an artist of second hand emotions.

I learned that there is only one truth.

They won't notice if...

You don't let them get too close.

But inevitably the guard falls,

The face falters,

And some will notice the cracks in the facade.

The hours of endless toil,

The decades of dedication,

And the years of practiced pretending,

Were no match for true scrutiny.

I became a museum.

Velvet ropes softened the distance.

Hushed lightening provided the proper response.

But those that cared to scrutinize,

Would ultimately spot the fake.

I've learned that to become a master,

Requires a lifetime of arms length relationships.

An emotional un-attachment.

There are no colors that mimic hope.

As I sit and sip my fourth sidecar,

pondering my precious disguise,

I try not to frown at my own thoughts.

What have I gained from my art?

How much have I lost?