Art


The truth was obscure,
almost as if it did not belong where it was . . . out,
in the open,
for all to see.

Time’s intention for my journey was slow;
a torturous pace
that refused to pass me by.
And so I waited. I waited whilst the days passed
and the world moved from season to season.
I waited, patiently for my soul to be unveiled.
My hands and heart toiled effortlessly,
manipulating ideas and thoughts until they merged into a single pattern;
life, from the perspective of manic hope.
Life, abstract yet precise; art.
And I am the artist.
My work, defined by perception, sits upon the stage; staring at those who stare it.
There is meaning
in the various colors and abbreviated lines that dance across the canvass.
It is how I see the world. It is my voice, alive and bold . . . I speak.