There it was,
buried amongst the clutter
of similar,
yet somehow less radiant
objects of artistic beauty.
Its brilliance shrouded
by layers of time
that betray
a respect to memory

There are others,
newer, better kept,
some with paint still drying;
I cannot look away.
It calls to me,
to my curiosity,
my need to see what
Beauty is buried beneath

My brush
gently wipes away
the dust of days upon days

My cloth
delicately dissolves
the residue of time passing too slowly

until finally

There it is
Sitting on the wall
amongst other similar,
yet somehow more diminished
works of artistic renown.
Its brilliance illuminating
halls that seem larger
than the dimensions contained

I may not have created that picture
I may never own that picture
But as long as I work here
I can look upon its radiance
and tell myself that
I helped the world to see
The glory that was once
Seen by the heart of another.

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