His art is defined within his crooked smile
Elusive eyes, even for the most brilliant author
Deep blue ocean jewels
Softly caressed by lulling waves
To and fro

Unique to him are abundant charms
Perhaps it’s the way each stray strand from his head
Commemorates the wet grains of sand
Squishing up between our toes
Beneath the foamy, transparent sea

One’s art is not always defined
By the sketch of a face or the painting of a daisy
Art is the tiny lisp her ears greedily consume
As his precious words pour out

Art is stopping to smell the roses
Art is not always beauty
For even beauty itself
Can be hideous

Scars make you stronger
And love lasts a bit longer
When you learn of the beautiful disasters
Known as art