to an artist

[joel]

When chisels carve my soul, when pigments spill
their colors for my likeness, when your burst
of creativity begins to mold
my body chained to suffer timelessness—
what solace, comfort will you offer me
when I am left but dusty centerpiece,
immortal gallery attraction, friend
to artist eyes that lock on me till End
arrives, their generations’ Rest in Peace—
When I am old and fold curmudgeonly
in yellowed, faded beauty, will you bless
me? Will you say You never can be old,
fair friend, to me— for as you were when first
your eye I eyed, such seems your beauty still?*




*opening lines from Shakespeare's sonnet 104:
To me, fair friend, you never can be old,
For as you were when first your eye I ey'd,
Such seems your beauty still.