Invisible hands.

The artist vanishes behind the canvas,

brushes dipped in dreams,

yet no one sees the hands that hold the hues,

they only see the colors.

__

Mona Lisa smiles,

but no one knows whose eyes brought her to life,

they see only the curve of her lips,

not the hand that coaxed that smile from shadows.

___

Art clings to itself,

drawn to the gleam of its own kind,

it does not see the hands that crafted its form,

nor hear the silent song of its maker.

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I love the art,

but the art knows not love for the artist,

it lives only in the mirror of itself,

never turning to see the one who gave it life.

___

So I remain unseen,

my words caught in the silence of the gallery,

where art and artist walk separate paths,

forever entwined, forever apart