I no longer paint landscapes,
My brushes are dry, brittle, forgotten.
Paints are caked, cracked
like the desert ground in July.
Poetry no longer flows from my pen;
My fingers, once calloused and limber,
Are now smooth and soft, cramped.
No longer able to navigate the intricate
patterns where line meets loop meets curve
to form the verse my soul aches to sing.
Van Gogh once said painting was
as essential to him as breathing,
my lungs need that air.
I miss the ugly, calloused knots of
flesh upon my knuckles,
The semi-permanent dent, eroded by my nail
has long since recovered.
Leaving no trace, no evidence to indicate
The volumes I once proudly penned.