The Fine Art Of Description Poem by Cheryl Lynn Moyer Peele

Beethoven, Mozart, musicians all
speak God's voice with sounds
until the music is almost,
yet incomplete. Poets write words,
full of human fury and love
and sorrow, just one syllable
short of eternity. The painters,
of infinite hues, capture spirituality,
but only on earthly canvasses.
Perhaps together the orchestra
of life can mirror the heavens,
or even it's simplest form
of God's natural creations? No,
all earthly efforts fail,
when all we ever needed
was the first pure colorless
note, written in silence.

Why do we artists struggle
at all then? To live,
and love, and write, and paint,
and sing, and take our part
in the indestructible art of
'being? ' To be entirely
oneself however, is almost
impossible. But let us practice,
dear souls, practice in joy.

It is only when those we love
finally close our unseeing
eyes, will we open completely
to the un-physical, spiritual union
with all that is, free
of any need
for description.