A Hunger

"A Hunger"
By David V. Cortez

I've bandaged these fingers of which I type,
to close the rift of flesh.
Like crown of thorn these markings read
as serpentine healing cuts.
On glass from unsung painted dream
I've coated them, acrylic.
For as yet not I bring to life,
Idea mine, idealic.
For still I try,
for that I vie,
To finally make a mark,
on painted world, my painted plans,
by painting light and dark.

With me my brush o' stalwart mate
to craft my wicked world,
of hues I choose,
and stoic muse
my art won't satiate.

But new day brings much better thoughts
that cavort inside my mind.
And new ways sing of better tune,
than that of former chime.
In frame from captured moment wrought
by love in some degree,
Is art not love in simple form,
and in that truth, aren't we?

For art do I, and Love, I try
to understand that spark,
that glitters ever patiently,
in me and in the dark.

Allow these eyes, permit them free,
and in that journey speak,
of pigment soul,
in wading shoals
of expressing all of me.

If I leave world and never feel
the sand beneath my toes,
or the many lovely feelings
near my heart each beat echoes,
than surely I left without a life
of meaning in repose.
And none should be there at my wake,
instead, alas, alone.
For in me breath of fire leaps,
to create, of art unknown,
And lays with me serenity,
to name such works my own.
For when come I to build that name
of marvels which I've sewn,
then finally at rest I be,
my soul may travel home.