The Art of Knowing

If I were an object chosen, by an artist’s mind supposing,

would the hand that paints my shape,

care to know or contemplate,

upon all matters deep within,

my heart made small from sorrow’s grin?

What if this artist kindly sought,

to play awhile within my plot,

created here to magnify,

a woman’s spirit sure to cry?

What if the painter dreamed a dream,

that stepped away from cultures scream,

and with his brush he deepened lines,

and aged my face,

yet gave me grace.

And you all bought this masterpiece.