Yesterday, I was out in the open,
Just a piece of clay.
Absent of value, unsure of my worth.
Maybe full of potential,
Wasted, by a torrential rain,
That drop by drop carried away my soul.
But your hands, my sweet Artesana,
Gently scooped me out of the mud.
With silky touch you shaped my skin,
And the inside of me, you even out too.
Unable to hear it, I felt your words.
Vibrating melodies from your finger tips,
Into the depths, of my broken spirit.
Kindness, comprehension,
Encouragement and compliments,
Showered my shores.
And with fresh minty water,
You got rid of my rough surface.
With long strokes, my merciful angel,
You dressed me in purple and velveteen green.
And under a sun bean,
Caressed by a fragrant spring breeze,
My crystal shade, Artesana,
You made from clay a soldier, worthy of your skills.
A soldier,
That jealously hides,
Proudly presents,
Or valiantly fights
For a new born writer, secrets and treasures,
Illuminated by your eternal beats of inspiration.
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