The brushwork long trusted
Failed me. No shattered me.
My vision was clouded, blocked
Until the ugly blot filled my sight.
The masterpiece of my life
Destroyed by mishandled intentions.
Noble yet blemished beyond belief.
I failed. Miserably. Horribly.
Should I bury this loved piece
Under layers of new paint?
Can I focus on other works
That are still to come?
Maybe. No. This can't be.
My longing can only be filled
By this creation. By this love.
Why?
Start over. A new vision
Will come are the words I am told.
My heart. My mind. My soul.
Tell me that this is not true.
Canvas. Paint. Technique.
They have no soul. The love
And vision must come from me.
I know the answer but I am
Scared to return. And look
At the blot that is there.
It is staring at me.
Blaring at me.
I hate this imperfect spot.
So where do I go?
What do I do? How do I know
That I won't ache again?
It finally dawns on me.
I love this creation.
I must fear no more.
I see the spot. The blot.
Instead of pain I see my creation
In a new light. Not perfection
That I had dreamed. Rather
A testing of my vision.
Realization hits. This blot
Can be used. To mold.
And strenghten my view.
- JMG 1/14/2005
