Michaelangelo's Artist

Sudden life: forms spring from existences,
newborn, reborn from the old, the dead decay;
the artist in his studio is death
and death's relentless progress; a stay;
death arrived, yet death not yet come;
sudden splashes of color re-vitalize
the slashes of line and form - almost divine,
creations rise from the never known,
the surmise, the never understood, a wavering tone,
the prickly path of intuitive's choice,
the merely glimpse into the "barely", unheard voice
where all comes with clashes of planets
and explosions, expulsions,
a never ending re-creation of universes...

Mind and mass from black, zero born,
a spark, lightening flashed, circuits circuitous exploding -
the artist stands with death - impassive -
waiting by his easel, waiting to receive,
or to form, to touch intuitive truth, and die:
creation is a secret, death is the absolute,
the secret consecrated, the sigh imploding
a universe into a precarious point:
Michaelangelo's artist, finger waiting, reaching
to be touched, to be born - a sign?
yet caught in the recurrent, the cycle,
brushed; for there is no factual time:
the artist, by his easel, must wait with death
and be ever-reaching, a speck alone; resigned...