Always the one who lifts,
who shapes, like clay, into something bold,
a spark they didn't know they held,
until there it is, blooming.
And then, once they've grown their colors,
they fade into a world that looks brighter,
only for them.
It's a strange sort of ache,
to be the artist in their story,
sculpting what they become,
only to step back, vanish like a shadow
when the masterpiece no longer needs its maker.
Makes one wonder
am I more than just the brush?
