Love                                  is                      
wr­itten                    in                    stone
       which                                slowly
             fades                          to
                   sand                   ..                                          
                    ­     ..                 ..
                             . . . . . . .
                              . . . . . .
                                . . . .
                                  . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Strokes of paint,
Smudged over the face.
Hiding below it
The skin fades.

                The touch remains -
                That of a mother's hands
                Over her child's face.

For behind the canvas
Is where the art is,
And it's not up to us
To make a masterpiece.
But to try...
...Is what makes us artists.