The worlds you bring forth
   from the strokes of your brush
do not capture the beauty of life
   that lies before the careless eye,
which scans the starry night
   while the heart fails to move in time
to the silent symphonies they play above
   to an uncaring world stirring pointlessly below.
No.
You hear their songs.
You hear them all,
   as your brush plunges into the fountain,
whose streams break forth upon the stars below,
   baptizing them in the awful beauty
that echoes throughout all the worlds
   your heart deigns to speak into tender existence
within a universe where only God hears their cries.