Painter Hands

No color flows from my fingers.

I am an arm that moves

A foot that steps

Keeping the foundation

Contained, 

But I am not the house.

I am not the light

Nor am I the mirror

Just a curtain

To make it more 

Comfortable. 

Why did I ever dream

Of taking form

Or flying high

When all I can do

Is hold my stones together

So someone else

May live or walk

upon me?

Yes, I am important.

Yes the great dragons and wizards

Need ground to stand upon

As well

And can’t exist in space,

But I had once wanted

To twist and twirl

Burn and sparkle

And flume and make.

I’d been given

Just a handful of magic

And thought

Maybe…

Maybe I could be both house

And stone

But no. 

That is for a life

Beyond this one

When foundations

Still, solid, sure, and bland

Aren’t in short supply

And man too idle

And vile

To build them. 

For the next life,

I whisper

To the earth beneath

My stone belly.

So close your eyes, 

Dream a dream

And keep 

Those mechanical arms

At work

Building the fortress

The box 

The home

And wait for my nails

To leak color

Once more.