Take your heart out. Empty its
Contents upon a thin sheet
Of paper. With the five fingers
Of your leftmost hand
Smear the debris across the canvass
Like mud. You are painting
With words, the words
Of your soul.
Take your right hand and employ it as a brush.
Smooth the painted pics
Into something coherent, some thing
Cognizant. Pretend you are Da Vinci
With a tinge of Bruegel
Casting peasants in colorful villages.
After crafting your world
From humble beginnings
Remove your brain from its castle.
Set it aside for now.
Align the skull of your mind’s living room
With your poem in the raw.
Spread your painted words along
The walls inside.
Place your brain again
Upon its perch,
Lock it in.
Then wait seven days.
Allow the words
To seep into your brain
Like oil oozes into soil.
Then pull your heart from behind
Its shield. Set it upon a hard surface
And bludgeon it to a pulp.
Wring it dry of all discomfort.
Let it bleed your words like ink
And they will ruminate, breathe on their own.
Watch them migrate like a grand scheme
You cannot control.
When they complete their dance,
Caress them with gentle strokes
Of your paintbrush. Cull
Them of all sanctity
And quell any lifeless prose.
You now have your sacred work of art
In all its divine purity.