Flawed, Fractured, and Fragmented.
Is that tragic?
Glass is melted sand.
Clear, crystalline glass,
Translucent and infinitely malleable,
Heated beyond all measure.
Paint is nothing more than pigments ground fine,
Dust mixed with oil,
Redistributed under the hand of the artist
Into windows to a world unseen.
Sculpture is a stone carefully destroyed,
Chipped and carved and shaped,
Until the truth hiding inside is released.
Great writing flows best from hands that have trembled in the dark.
Beauty is created from broken things.
I am broken.
The artist is making me beautiful.