Perfect Art
When I hear your words I hear
The poem I can�t stop writing;
When I see your face I see
My portrait, so inviting;
When I feel your wounds I feel them
With my own pierced hand;
And when I placed you on your own
I knew you wouldn�t stand.
I made you to be perfect,
But I made you incomplete;
You�re my favorite easel
When you have only two feet.
For making you is my delight,
The painting painted day and night
The poem I can�t cease to write . . .
The melody I can�t seem to find,
The lyrics always on my mind
The song that�s only lacking time . . .
You are my abstract painting:
Creativity unrestrained;
You are atonal music:
By convention uncontained;
You�re in my words that flow out,
To create all that you see.
And when you cannot understand,
The flow makes sense to me.
And when you do not understand,
Love, you make sense to me.