Iranian Canvas

Made of wood. I know I should; excise the inner fires turned solid. my life's eyes tell me of your future colors; yet to me unconscious . Instead no dread, of the black out and the work to attack you with furious brush strokes, hand and arm; eyes closed. pinnacles of mind light projected on a black hole stop time for three levels: Shadows. Dancing in a doorway and alley side. Fogs and mysts. Join and then depart from a centaur battlement; the impressions of a fantastic dream of past years. Final victory is hinted by pastel tones. The result is all a question in continued blindness to it; beauty or not it's given away in love. The story your dictation; the weaver of Iranian yarns demands total silence. Meditation. An Old man's quest. Complete. I had thought that what was wrought; the tiny pinnacles never to develop into physical blooms; it was your discovery. Wooden square of complete abstraction. Feelings fit in shapes by magic. Colors launched and the laboratory thrumming; the naked human works while the wood begins to shine. Forest on an island in outer space with a cloud wearing a rye expression. Of mirth . Maze of depth opens a door to your heart through my process. Blending; Death of apprehensions into an image of your favorite flashbacks. ; your most needed fire place; embers of spoken unreality Somehow. Intention leads to perfection; duality through splintered rainbows. It began with a most feared canvas. It began with an Iranian canvas.