When I met my muse, she spoke with care,
“Art must come from the empirical, bare.”
Ask me, she said, of allegiances torn,
Of objectors who wander, of the canvas forlorn.
We read to each other, our voices soft,
Ritual to accountability, the words hang aloft.
For my young friends, bi-focal their sight,
Instructed by hope, they find the light.
The contention that discontent leads us astray,
Yet assurance finds roots in the well rising, they say.
In the deep channel of thinking about this life,
An argument for or against chaos and strife.
At a party, I met my muse once again,
Returning to say that lies lie in men.
“Art must come from the empirical truth.”
Waking from walking I recall my youth.
“Who are you to be afraid?” The objector demands,
Yet, with assurance found in the Artist’s hands.
Security dwells not in what we own, but our own,
In the lessons, the Art that we make from our bones.
WoPoLi 
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