His artwork begins to form as the ink leaves the tip of his quill pen
and touches the perfectly laid white strip canvas that awaits him.
Slowly, with each stroke his imagination floods the white cloth.
Retracing each line with an endearing touch adamant on perfection.
Soon, the path is construct and each stroke tells a tale, the first abstract.
Now details await, chromatones dear to syncopate.
Glistening, as each heart beat plays.
Without strain, the canvas begins to take shape.
He pushes on in anticipation-eagerly, masterfully allowing his hand to
explore the intricate walls of his hand maiden
Bringing to life a once concealed vision.
A single tear falls upon completion,
If only his eyes could see the creation of his fingers.
If only their hearts could feel the creation of his creeds depiction.
A token of mind not body
A body of soul, not beauty.
Thoughts now become memories as a new canvas emerges
Ready for him to spill his story
Of tomorrow’s not lived
Wrapped in an imagination
An utterance made from his
unique impartial spectrum
Overwhelmed,his inspiration consuming the elements so perfectly laid to rest.
The piece called SpillingInk, is now abreast, ever spreading, under no duress