The Artist’s Eye
I see all forms of creativity defined by prophesy and imagery. Weeping onto pages old ink smudges are today’s old grudges. Forming, no, becoming that which is pure. My eyes capture moments only seen by emotion’s vision. Often blinded by its true intention leading to cohesion. Ideas racing up at night pacing those dreams made reality seem stale. The hands sketch loudly to a rhythm created by the strums of carbon against pale skin. The script has tripped upon itself onto the spine and into imagination. My eyes touch the tips and points. Letters scatter melting together into a symphony piercing the underside of the page with intensity. My eyes, blue as ocean’s waves roll past paragraphs. These eyes see movement in human nature. Human and nature flowing without knowing the other’s song. These eyes, an Artist’s Eyes.