The artist, with her palette case
Stood in the city square
Her skirt reached to the cobblestones
Her slender arms were bare
And sprinkled round her naked feet
Were colors of the rain
Where she lingered in the twilight
And before the dawn she came
Not a shadow of pretension
Issued from her steady gaze
Nor a trace of bold extravagance
Entangled in her ways
Yet passion flowed as freely
As her long unfettered hair
And common glances passing by
Would pause a breath and stare
As she sculpted with adoring hands
The masterpiece, the plan
Captivated in one shadow
The paintbrush and her hand
Young, the days spilled down
across her face—benevolent and warm
As each mesmerizing scene
Beneath her fingertips was born
Then at last her small and dusty feet
Stood still against the stone
For her canvas bore the masterpiece
Of blood and breath and soul
As a summer moon threw shadows
On her canvas, and the ground—
She calmly struck a match
And burned it down
The Longest Road 