The artist knows the world in which he lives
So well because he watches, sits apart.
The resonance; the truth he aptly gives
Description to; the words, which find the heart
And pierce it through with observations frank;
The subtleties; the deft accuracy
Of life as lived, scrawled into pages blank—
All this because, apart, the artist sees.
His eyes detect the world, as through a scope.
The smallest particles, enlarged, disclose
Entire worlds contained, and in them, hope.
The hope we all could see, if we so chose.
For in the common things, we find the truth—
Repeated; found in death and sought in youth.