The Tragic Masterpiece

For Stephanie Marie

An old man, wizened will with age, pulled out a crisp, white parchment page,
Plus pen and ink, and like a sage, set forth upon his task.
With keenest ear and fervent heart, he sat by candlelight to start;
There humming, writing every part, his face a thoughtful mask.
For years, he bent in toil that way, until that one triumphant day;
His only wish was not to play the symphony he'd made.
But shattered was his dream so dear; he played the notes but couldn't hear,
His work was lost, it brought a tear; his life had been betrayed.
Not far off lived another man, who with his paint and brush in hand,
Had vowed to make a work so grand that all would stand and stare.
He blended pigments day and night, until he felt the mood was right,
And with one stroke, the canvas-white, was soon no longer bare.
He stepped back to survey the whole, and everything went black as coal,
His masterpiece; his only goal, he never even saw.
About this time a man of art; a sculptor, with ambitious heart,
Had bought a slab with which to start; its surface white as bone.
His fingers touched the marble pure, and felt within an image stir;
The hammer fell, and as it were, he chiseled at the stone.
Alone save for his mallet's sound, for months the chips came falling down,
And as each piece there hit the ground, the image grew more bold.
His tools had finished, but he cried; he'd reached to touch his work with pride,
But found his sense of touch had died; his fingers numb and cold.
I had a masterpiece once too, formed of myself it slowly grew;
A precious child all pink and new, and named her ‘Baby
Steph.’
She's gone now with her life somewhere, oblivious to all my care,
I'll never hear her voice so fair; my ears to her are deaf!
I saw her when my work was new, but I'll not know to what she grew;
Quite beautiful, I'm sure tis true , at least within my mind.
I wish my gaze could reach her face; my sight her countenance would grace,
Yet I know this won't be the case; my eyes to her are blind!
The warmth her body holds inside can never be my source of pride;
The hug and kiss I've been deprived, I'll miss so very much.
I will not ever touch her check, nor help her stand when she is weak,
I feel so helpless and so meek to never know her touch.
But unlike those of which I've spoke, I must not cry but learn to choke
My tears and firmly bear the yoke and presently employ
A discipline with which to find a happiness, though strange in kind,
That someone has work that work of mine and finds within... their joy!
For what would be a masterpiece, if when the artist left would cease
The utter beauty and the peace it brought to everyone?
So, I will not lament my fate, nor let my happiness abate,
For someone, somewhere, knows how great the masterpiece I've done.