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The Hands of The Artist

The hands of an artist are weathered like wood

Fingertips worldly-wise, hardened and tooled

Always patina’d with various colours

Turpentined-soaked, makes them wizened and rougher

A million times washed and wipe-dried hastily

Never unblemished, they’re flecked constantly

The knuckles like rings of a freshly felled tree

Concentric and packed with a palette’s debris

The nails never clean, as they scratch at the canvas

The surface attacked with a magical madness

There’s stories they tell with each flick of the brush

Deliberate strokes, or a frenzy of rush

Layer on layer of manner and tone

Those fingers extensions, with mind’s of their own

What wondrous creations that grace lucky surface

Are born as result of the artist’s one purpose

Worship the marvels, deserving of glory

Evoking emotions, narrating a story

The hands, artists’ hands, like a part of their soul

The image ensues from that fight for control

With dab soft as feather or a slash like a knife

Lifetime spent making our dreams come to life!

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