The Chosen, The Artist

It is not we who chose our trade

But our trades that have chosen us;

We, the writers, musicians, painters,

Gardeners, we who harness life’s song

Like a gift or a curse,

We who feel the heart on our sleeves pulsating,

We, who once felt burdened

And now feel enlightened,

Lucky even,

By how intensely the mundane speaks,

To how artfully we scooped up those tears

And bottled them like fine wine

In colored bottles, on a shelf within reach

Prized as the product of our souls

Like each moment of our lives

That we cannot

possibly keep all to ourselves

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