Vision-ary

With the help of the light
that you emanate,
your blood and muscle 

turned glass,
and I a visionary.

Your topography,

as evident as a tree's,

has been studied diligently,

alike to the carefully painted strokes

of a practiced perfectionist.

The soil you grow on,

fertile today,
is profiled 

by sweat filled days,

characterized,

by the rich ebony of mud, 

that supports.

Nurtured, cultured

from a miniscule seed,

by branch and leaf 

you have grown.

Still, 

a past frame lingers.

Carried in the faint smell of hardwork

on your persona

and in the story

a soil epic,

demons digested

frustrations fermented

and malice manured

to productive compost.

You bear sweet fruit,

enchanting, 

yet no magic was found in its sugar

only traces

of wine like aging,

and dedicated parentage.

Years slip by,

in peering through

your glistening transparencies

before I reach

the meaningless rock,

the mere possibility,

that lay hiding

your master sculpture,

unsculpted and,

unappreciated

from the world.