Behind each brush stroke lies the basis of a masterpiece.
An empty canvas is that of an artist hand-print.
Line by line the divine guides mind to work, such as a craftman.
To defy the average,
A builder of things; the human canvas.
Thus flesh is stretched upon a frame of bone and mass. The eyes like windows but our thoughts more fragile.
A chasm of things
catastrophic in ways unheard of..
The molding of a sculptured piece meek and mild mannered
Yet, in the moment of absolution discretions unleashed effortlessly To bend will restlessly. Changes in pressure and temp are gradient.
The kiln sizzling, the moment the boiling point is exceeded the vapors seep.
The body’s drenched from heat waves its iridescence; astounding.
Structure sways against the canopy, like an aged landmark.
The watermark, a copyright beneath these hidden features. By design this mind unearthed the plan that birth man. A mother raised me, while as with cattle society grazed the deepest reaches of the soul.
Feeding It’s enclosure; exposed the core of the hollow, the empty, and harnessed these feelings.
The art of pain erased the stains of tear drops from cheekbones.
I’m on my own to behold the crafts we conjure. Whats Harry without a wand but a boy named Hermione. I mean: girl see as my words slur. This drucken chatter, cause accidents happen. Even geniuses have there off days. I did it again; I mean days off. So as I embark from the top like rehearsal. I prep the landmark where my hands are. You’re witnessing history in the making. Can I embody the contents of those before me Picasso; Dali perhaps. It seems surreal to be standing a
girl man before a mirror.
Again with the Blind-fold like eyes closed. Its unlike me to withhold the makings of a human canvas.
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