Have you met my distant relative
The man trapped in ice?
A father, or uncle, or
cousin so far removed I can't count.
He spent his days
Racing his paints against
The melting glaciers.
A Neolithic savant stabbing,
Scraping bristles bearing colour;
Arms drawn back for art.
Beauty is in the kill.
Stories of scavenging.
Stories of surviving.
Stories of success.
Stories told with each stroke.
Crude was our ancestors' language.
Since: tomes have been bound;
Scribes have translated, cried, and copied;
And oceans of ink have been poured.
Yet, we're still stabbing and scraping
At the minds of those who turn a deaf ear.