Labors of love like a warm breeze caress,
Softening edges worn rough by duress,
Seeking to bleed by releasing the soul,
Preventing it from suffocating in tortured black hole.
Quill as my sword toward battle I go,
What awaits up ahead I do not yet know,
But brilliant or poor unique it must be,
When a mind is consoled and it’s spirit set free.
Words as a weapon through ink that is laid,
Or passion unleashed in love that’s forbade,
Perhaps shrouded in mystery with nary a clue,
Or cringing in darkness in terror we’re drew.
Poet’s imagine with the most subtle prose,
No subject off limits, as anything goes,
Photo or painting both classics of art,
One modern, one ancient, endeared by the heart.
What poison is picked to us matters not,
May last an eternity and ne’er be forgot,
That future generations might enjoy what we loved,
Knowing we’re remembered as we look down from above.
~~ Dominic R. DiFrancesco ~~
A beautiful tribute to Arts and Life…
Thank you very much. 🙂
Yes- what we do is a labor of love. Any art – written, performing… – all require individual interpretation. What if we are not interpreted in the way we wish? Turned down or cut down?? But we continue because it fulfills us and we cannot live without it – we love it;)
Part of the fun for me is seeing how people interpret what I write. If it means something other than what I intended to others that is just fine with me. I think that is the beautiful part of any art form. 🙂