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The Artist

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A doctor of sorts,
They heal this broken world
With their own toils and sweat.
The final product:
A captivation
That numbs all pain,
If only for a little while.

They are the locksmiths of the body,
Holding the skeleton keys to our Souls-
We call them to unlock the door
When we are incapable of doing so;
To release the emotion and wonder That is trapped in our being.

As the magicians of this world,
They never cease to capture our Mind's eye,
Breathing life into metals
Carving beauty out of stone
Drawing laughter out of oil-
All allusions to the supernatural
Become plain as day.

A Hermes
The messenger
The interpreter
To tell us the stories worth sharing,
The words flit to the ears of the whole world
For no one cannot understand the language they speak.

As a giver, the artist lives by their passion
Slaves for their craft;
Yes, these artists are givers
For the world they give it Everything they have got-
Some of the time we notice them,
But most of the time,
We do not.




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