Make the beautiful woman alive again

Gather her up from the river bed

where her creator

had so ardently placed her

Carefully depicting the diffused light

falling gently onto the serene side

Of her lifeless corpse

And breathe new life into her

clothe her & feed her

In short  

I believe what many female artists

feel is an urgent instinct

to ressurect

                                                                          
                                                                        Desire

                                                          that thing which reaches

                                                            above the intellect

                                                    And propels one's feet forward

                                                         all obstacles be damned

   
                                                              And what is creativity

                                                             if not the artist's senses

                                                      so overwhelmed by the beauty

                                                              of this physical world

                                                             They yearn for a hand
                                                             
                                                                   in its creation

                                                              It goes without saying

                                                            that without the capacity

                                                             for feeling insignificant

                                                 I imagine records would not be broken

                                                    And the summit of many a mountain

                                                             would never be reached



                                                            And generally speaking

                                                      the limits of human endurance

                                                                and achievment

                                                        may well go largely untested

Leaving the surface of the person

relatively intact

while killing off the core

                                                                    the beauty of this world

                                                                            is lying about

                                                             singing from the asphalt sidewalks

                                                                    begging to be picked up

                                                         
                                                         But no-one standing behind her

                                                        means no-one standing over her

                                               Though the paper she uses be torn or stolen

                                                        or the colour of her ink be red

                                                                     
                                                                      And if you balk

                                                                  at my use of the word

                                                                               soul

                                                     when identifying the crime committed

                                                                    Is it such a stretch

                                                                       to call the act

                                                               exactly what it looks like

                                                          & give a name to the the effect

                                                                        on the self

                                                         as exactly what it feels like?

Perfectly calm

briefcase in hand

With a look of aquired serenity

Standing ever patiently

Waiting at the foot of a broken machine