Withstand the hands of time.
Hold strong the lines of rhyme,
Burning thought like fire.
The mind's eye never tires.
Break forth the bars that hold
As leaves of passion fold
And falls the chosen fruit
Now rotting on the root.
Flames lick at its skin
Devouring all within.
Time will have its feast.

Here, the people rest
Under the sound of a bustling train.
Here, the people sit
Under the weight of many burdens on their backs.
Here, the people watch
The time tick by too quick to catch hold of.
Here, the people yawn
With gaping mouth waiting for their time to arrive.
Here, the people ponder
Of many things, I know not of.
Here, the people quiet
Through the journey long ahead.
Here, the people ride
Through miles of endless thought.
Here, the people listen
Yet they don't, their eyes transfixed on empty space.
Here, the people are
For here they just exist
Passing as a shadow
No, there's nothing here to hear
Nothing here to see
The people are simply here.

Expression of the mind
Written on the page,
Painted on the canvas,
Molded with the clay.
Thoughts into reality.
Images to life.
Projected by the brush.
Inscribed in actuality.
The artist is a maker
Creator and inventor.