The Art

“The Muse” by Samuel F. B. Morse

I’ve taken pieces out of me to fill the frame
It is colossal, oppressive and intensively gold
Like a cathedral or any hollow ground that stand above lies
I’ve collected material from my insides
Still warm and steamy
At first, they were easy to catch 
Smooth to remove and almost painless to detach
They seemed to have a precise place and they’d glue perfectly 
The frame was — dare I say — ,
Almost beautiful.

Then, one day, bits of flesh fell off from the sculpture
Small and relatively unnoticeable
Only a strong observer would, after a good examination,
Realize maybe those dots were not intentional.

I dug deeper. The new pieces were thicker and harder to grasp
They came out surrounded by a strip of pain
I gulped them down and they accepted
The frame was filled again, some parts better fitting than others
But a respectable work of art to hang on the wall
Of the less perceptive and less vigilant.

And one morning, that began like any other
The frame fell wholly to the ground
I woke by the sound of its heaviness and disregard
I looked inside and the remains were so scarce and so internal
They could barely fill a reproduction from a gift shop
Determined, I reached once more and they hurt violently 
They were slippery and retreated
They had absolutely no will to partake
And I tried to convince them as I convinced myself
That the frame was worth filling
That the museum was worth maintaining 
That the passersby would be touched by it enough to go in
And that their passage was worth the pain
And worth the removal of so many pieces 
To fulfill the frame.

And as I sat there, gluing together the threadbare slices
I saw the river of red ink flowing unaware
The drain was taking it away as I cleaned and bleached the frame
Over and over again
Then the paint seemed much more compelling to my deflated body
And much more resourceful
Much more cooperative
The frame sat stained at the corner as I carefully removed my skin
And inch by inch by inch
I filled it with permanent poetry.

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