Three 

of Arts

There were three of him

at any given moment.

One demanded a daily dose

of joy, wringing from the slightest

episode a sense of holiday.

After all, life was for keeping 

love alive.

One was bent on making amends

as though he had lived wrongly.

Every decision a bid for redemption,

every gratitude a way back 

to the jubilance of childhood.

One surveilled his own discomfort

so that every hurt or pain

might revive his spirit

like an art for polishing stones.

That way, every tyranny 

chanced to refine him.

Peter Valentyne

July 7th, 2019