By Abigail Shields Year 11
In winter,
I saw in the oak the wrinkles of the artist,
The soul once prostituted–
A man who peeled away his threads.
Entwined-rooted elm trees,
Corruscating his visions.
Alchemy there born,
He moulded lead into gold,
He defied the metaphysical,
And abandoned his now-lone soul.
His sacrifice isolates,
Then why does his art speak?
In summer,
I saw leaves, scattered around the Quercus rubra,
The oak no longer so lonely,
The artist’s tongue completes.
His thoughts once–
Droplets bombarding a swarming puddle,
A picture of atomic mandalas,
Of blood tiers running untamed.
Now, the watermill pirouettes,
Cascading to the creek,
Drowning down the body beneath,
Liberating loss, unveiling his lease.
In summer, the leaves were born,
As the artist’s intellect formed.
He uncoded the cryptic creation,
And perfected his soul’s communication.
The bells startle,
Singing of his rejuvenation.
The soul once prostituted–
Now was not thieved of dignity,
He solely shared his zeal.
