Saw a Lark in the Mill

I saw him sitting there.
This boy I used to dislike.
His pen scratching angrily across the page.
Was it anger, or merely focus?
Or perhaps just his “Style” – his way.
I took a step closer.
Lines filling a page entice me.
There is something in the way
the ink or lead is suddenly there,
where once was nothing.
It enchants me.
There is something in the contrast,
it pulls me into its dichotomy.
The drawing is…impossible to describe.
Dark. Painful. Beautiful. Alluring.
He is an artist.
This picture leaves me breathless,
as his work so often does.
People who can create
have always amazed me.
There are words there too,
etched in to the page as if by blade.
I read them as well.
They are dark, like the sketch.
I wonder for a moment if I’ve treaded too far.
If these words are from his soul,
or just from a pen.
If they are from his heart,
they are not mine to read.
Now without permission.
I read them anyhow,
curious as to what he wants.
Is he drawing darkness because it is beautiful
or is the darkness within guiding his pen?
Does he want someone to see the pain in the words,
or does he simply wish to create a piece of art
and pass the time?
I want to reach out to him.
I want to ask him about the pain, the art, the words.
And see if I might help.
So often when I see him he has a look in his eye.
A look of sadness. Loneliness. Frustration.
I know not what to say.
I compliment his work.
I walk away,
still wishing for words.
Perhaps I’ll never know what goes on
inside the artist’s mind.
Perchance he’ll never care.
My only wish is that his art
triumphs over his despair.

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