What sort of unimaginable beauty resides

Within an artist's praise?

What godlike force makes it such

A euphoric feeling of grace?

A few simple words of acknowledgement of talent

Or a grandiose paragraph of worship

Can make a failing author or a starving artist

Feel like God on Earth, a living muse.

Can it be compared to

A loving compliment to one's child,

For what an artist makes

Comes from within himself, his body,

And he calls it his own, his baby?

Perhaps it is like being God

And being complimented on the nice work

Of creating a livable universe.

Maybe there is no articulating the experience,

The feeling, the unparalleled emotion,

But one cannot deny,

There are few pleasures in this world

To rival such exhilaration.