poems come from the abyss
one always hopes to fill,
at least for me ,
no lines from heaven

behold the joy proposed of being an artist
worrying that you really did fail
in turning your soul to statements

the true nature of what we do , unknown to us
letting the decay of sanity sink in,
we hunt beauty by way of letting logic fall to abstraction

close your eyes, let the right line and word and image be a piranha
hand goes in the water, hoping for a bite, for something to
latch on so hard you can pull it away with you

the loving breast of an artist allows eggs to be planted inside
it, only for them to devour till fat and mature, to burst away
and take flight, as far from you as possible