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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