Bottled colors lay waiting.
They cannot contain the soul’s vision.
And yet, they are like clay in a potter’s hands.
Mortally identifying all things words cannot express.
The buzz of a motor tickles my ear.
The gloved hand of creativity brushes my skin.
We are separated only by the simplest of engineered mechanical wonders.
And by a barrier of skin, of course.
But that’s just it, isn’t it?
So, as if I am a bird anticipating flight,
My pores open, thirsty for her healing medicines.
But angry is my victor, neither gentle nor soft in her approach.
I can feel myself succumb, my soul longing to make use of this pain.
I cannot see with my eyes.
So it is in faith that I allow her to advance.
Yet oddly, it is a faith beyond fleshly understanding,
As my only feeling is the stinging remnant of her inspiration.
While I am surprisingly void of emotional response,
There is a strange comfort when her delicate and cool sweep wipes away
All that was not meant for me to begin with.
That which I have taken, and that which I have given.
All that is left is what I need.
So I go on, learning about what it means to be human.
To live, trapped in a tent made of flesh.
And somehow, through this demonstrative process of pain and comfort,
blood and ink, I am allowed to bare in my flesh the colors of my soul.
