having writ

on the cusp of surrenderthe artist weighs a maybe on a plea

maybe
if i set my engine to this ache
my mind could get some rest
if i write it down, if i sing it loud, if i oil it to the canvas
being stabbed or shook or drowned it will pass silently in the night

and so she digs – gouges into what ails her
hollows her heart to spare the tissue around it

and with the final stroke, there it be
the masterpiece she’d grow to love
more than hate the thing that made it
a riot of residual emotion
in her living room
staring her in the soul

just so happened this time the demon
begat a beautiful piece of sky
with hues of you against a finer cloth
than you’d seen in these parts
in at least month of Sundays

motivation clad in the keepsake of that sanguinary battle ‘tween the bitter and the sweet