A mural of the word Fragility composed of porcelain,

a million tiny pieces fluttering beneath a will to hold

themselves together in the current of a future undetermined,

shivering inside a silent wind that softly blows.

A painting of the human heart, a medium that never dries,

a brush that can’t be steadied by a pulse that never stops,

a labor made of love, an undertaking undertook because

the art of life is our attempt to blend the bleeding drops.

A photograph of tears, a crystal portrait of a painful year

that builds and builds and finally spills into a single gem,

the aperture is infinite, yet finite as the moment spent

capturing the lonely drop that fell upon the lens.

A sculpture of a thought, a bronze embodiment of something not

poseable by standards of a concrete measurement,

a bust that’s turned to dust from shoulders to the neck on up,

a ball of clay misshapen as surrealist wet cement.

The frailty of art, the instability of all we are,

a feel that can’t be captured when the center can’t be kept,

so let us fling the sand, the truest portraiture of all of man,

and in the end the effort spent is all that shall be left.