Human Art

My frustration is simply a pastel

rubbed along the canvas of my being,

Not alive. Not really.

Just art. Just a picture.

Upon my humble frame and marble shoulders,

hangs a whole host of feelings.

But I don't feel them.

You do.

I am the sculpture that envokes,

every broken heart and every fallen tear.

But the cracks and splashes don't belong,

to me.

Somehow, I have managed death

more perfectly then anyone before.

For I continue to exist,

and see my passage marked.

While others weep and others laugh,

I stand in exultation.

A specter who is blessed,

with the love of those behind.

And as my tomb closes,

And as the bust settles,

And as the earth consumes,

And as all traces fade away.

It will not be a body that is gone,

But a work of art,

Both tragic and uplifting,

The picture of a human life.