The Artist will out

As we trudge across town
drowning in a down pour
to reach the frozen sanctuary
of a cold kitchen,
we notice the intricate patterns
that pool at our feet
and listen to the rhythm  
of our chattering teeth.
 
As we storm out of the house
with our temper at full sail
canvas already torn,
We notice the cobweb  
that cantilevers the fence post,
caught electric white  
by a deep calming frost.
 
Our songs are crafted in carbon
poured out over paper, mixed
with oil, thinned and repainted,
reworded as we clear our throats
ready to sing so loud  
that the birds will stop and listen.