I’m Still An Artist

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I'm Still An Artist

In twilight hours, I sit and fight
With hands that once danced in the light,
Now gripped by cruel and steady pain,
Each motion slow, each effort strained.

My fingers once so deft and bold,
Now struggle in their weakened hold,
A brush feels heavy, a pen too thick,
As joints grow stiff, and movements sick.

Yet still I dream in hues and lines,
In sculpted shapes, in grand designs,
My spirit, though my body aches,
Creates, endures, and never breaks.

Clay cold and hard beneath my touch,
A medium I love so much,
Resists the force I try to wield,
Yet in my heart, I do not yield.

Each stroke, a testament to will,
Each mark, a proof I labor still,
For though my hands may falter, slow,
My art within continues to grow.

I breathe my soul in every piece,
In colors bright, in patterns free,
And though arthritis binds me tight,
It cannot dim my inner light.

So I persist, through pain and strife,
For art is more than form or life,
It’s in the heart that beats within,
The drive, the passion, deep therein.

For I am still an artist, true,
With visions old and visions new,
My body’s limits may confine,
But nothing can restrain my mind.