Two Artists, Diverged

  "Two Artists, Diverged"

"Through discipline comes freedom."
- Aristotle

I.

Early on,
it was you

who attached yourself

to my coattails,

asking me earnestly,

how do you do

what you do?

I blinked 

at your curiosity,

wondering what you saw

in me that I simply

could not.  You,

the one with the platform,

the stage, the spotlight,

while all I did was scribble

in the dark.

II.

Later, we'd learn

to balance, our art

leaning lovingly

up against each other.

You learned 

to speak my language

and I learned

to speak yours.  

So fluent were we

that our sheer speed

would confound

any audience

we mustered.

What are you two?

they'd mutter

as they wandered,

confused, away.

III.

I learned 

who I was

by going through

the death of us.

IV.

A psychic

once told me

I'd never become

a world-renowned

writer, but she said,

instead, that my writing

would be therapeutic. 

Daily, I scribble

into the ether

each and every thought

that pings my brain

and what awakens me

the most is what I've learned

from you.  Each day, 

I sit down, I dedicate minutes

and hours to the plunking

of words onto the page

and even though they're not

all about you, so many

are derived from the discoveries

I've made through my drive

to overcome, to stand up,

to set my heart free

from any cage 

of my own creation.

Without this daily practice,

where would I be?

Who would have ever uncovered

all of these strange mysteries?

V.

My art still leans lovingly

up against the memory

of yours, my patience

an everlasting grace.

Especially on days

like today when everything

before me is a reflecting pool,

ripples expanding

in only refreshing ways,

I think of you with love.

Now well into this afterlife,

my soul can't help

but evolve at a rapid

pace.  And I wonder

what discipline, if any,

you've thought to embrace --

This poem was originally written July 18, 2023 for the Daily Writing Rewind project.