Sat by the windows tall
Grey clouded light hazes through to illuminate the wonders
The irreplaceable structures, swatches, and swiping, scraping of a tireless hand
Surrounded by the obvious subject, yet unlike those who amble, I choose to see
Paint pots and brushes of many men perch upon easels so used, a coins thickness of murky product builds its height, topped with splashes of clear reds, browns, and whites
Yet no art is to be fashioned from what has been once made, made again
And so, my back in the dark of the pristine portraits and angels flying high, I see
And what I see becomes my obsession
Frantic strokes upon a canvas rush to convey a fleeting moment of beauty
Colours so alive they cannot be restrained by careful handiwork, feelings so joyous they demand to be felt, untainted
And so I work as to appease them
And though I live like the sky
Light flirting in and out, captivating my soul, only to hide recluse behind the clouds and southern hemisphere
I hope my labour keeps the skies of some souls clear
And that will be enough