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Poem

The artist prepares to satiate the feeling he has inside,
the grip of existential energy that is an idea being born.
For colors already in mind he picks out the cans of paint,
and scurries around for a brush and a bit of blank canvas.
Then begins the war where inspiration battles the hand,
and the paint is moved around in a ballet of the brushes.
Raging in the heated encounter the artist is exhausted,
but is restored with the whispers of the mysterious muse.
With simple ease he cajoles the falling of the artists' rain,
to become an image that inspires even its own creator.
Giving those who will view it over the long dusty years,
a peek inside the looking glass where  beauty resides!

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