i once was able to make the art flow
just from the tips of my fingers like
i was weaving silk, smooth and
intricate as if
i were a proper artist,
like you, and
i used to know
how to meld the colors together
so seamlessly that,
after just one glance, you were
rendered absolutely bewitched and
i was always good at
making sure that the colors
would never bleed through the lines
but now they spill and splatter
wherever they please and
my tapestries used to hang in
museums, radiating that
unadulterated purity and unsullied
beauty that my soul envied and
ached to mirror and then
my canvases crumbled in the summer
because sunlight can be destructive and
unforgiving and now
my tapestries are nothing but
dust that seep through my fingers
that once wove magic
whenever i try to hold them again.
