What is a poet
if not an artisan
of words?

In his left hand he wields
the pallet of language,
a common instrument blemished
with the desolate hues
of disembodied idioms.

In his right hand he wields
the paintbrush of assertion,
an ashen tool with rugged bristles
pursuing in futility a holy union
with the paint of imagery.

Before him lies the canvas of life,
monochromatic and sapless
in its state of unchanging fluidity.

And yet, with the eternal passion of creation,
the poet masters these dismal tools
to craft an intricate verbal portrait,
one with a spirit of elegance.

What is a poet
if not an artisan
of words?

He is naught.

For the artisan finds
his home in the sacred guild
of artistry.

And artistry is naught
but a haven of prose.