I say that I’m not creative,
that I don’t have an artistic bone in my body.
I assure you, when you say I must be wrong,
that my hands hold no gifts of artistry.
No paintings or drawings spring forth from my fingertips.
A crudely scribbled stick person is the extent of my skill,
and even those, I don’t do very well at all to be honest.
But oh my, you should see the webs that I weave.
The beautiful mirages that I craft,
the masks that I sculpt – and wear with such conviction.
Wonders of illusion, they are creations to behold, I tell you.
So perfectly honed and presented
that there are times that even I am fooled
by what I see in the mirror, reflected back at me.
whisky sweet 