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Poem, as I posted to WritersCafe:

At an easel an artist stood
Painting a dreary black line
As black as was his mood
But he wanted talent to shine

Sculptor was staring at stone
Thinking ‘tis a good chisel
But never before he had shown
Shape of his soul, made visible

An author had words gliding
All carelessly in the air
And yet there was in hiding
How their purpose she could snare

A composer drew a melody on line
But it never took a good flight
“How could the rhythm of mine
Never be just right?”

But suddenly a magic so strange
In their places made a sound
Screaming for a change
The artists it would astound

The painting shouted: “Hear!
Invisible I may be.
But I am right here!
Please don’t smear on me.”

The sculpture said: “Please.
From your blade my pain has risen.
I’m begging on my knees:
Free me of this stony prison.”

The story to the author said:
“You’re taking words from my dust
But look at my heroes instead.
It is them that you should trust.”

The composer saw wings growing
On some of his notes unwritten
Next to it sang a voice flowing:
“Let us be heard, others smitten!”

So the magic got the passion lit
Of these artists now feeling young
And so their creations made it
In freedom and desire they were flung

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