Where?

my attempt at an ye olde poem

where? doth the soul rest in the pen or the easel? and when the brush hesitates, who betrays who? doth the man neglect his soul? which is like a thin pup starved of all, but most of love. or doth the soul neglect the man? for he has naught but primal fear to know with. is it a fear of pained union? like flesh to burning iron? or is it disgust of misguided wisdom? like a dog gnawing on rotten bones? why doth the heart whisper lest it aches? why doth it not sing and greet? oh prithee, let the man be the easel, and the soul the ink, and let whatever hand Above gently paint.