The piece of me

is always you

My hands grew tired some time,

for each day-

is an artist's grave

and for too long, I still ponder

When will I be a masterpiece?

For I am not, nor a captivating 

angel's face

words are nothing

without the sight of a piece.

Maybe, when time clicks its ways 

again-like an old tale, 

I'll be waiting for the piece

that's been missing for years

You'll see in the end,

favors are what makes me substance

from my dull,

colorless page.

And so for the last time,

feel me like the East wind

find me in the deepest treasury

that you...

are my missing piece

in an abstract painting.