the slight rhythm which courses through my hands,
that glowing hum which glistens between
the pricked ends of my ears,
drowned in piano keys and violin strings,
my cheeks feeling flushed
and temple dewing with the dust,
my shoulder aches and elbow flashes,
each joint in my finger twinges slightly,
blanketed in a fine coat of charcoal and passion,
rippling black smudges beckoning to something
like a far, far fetched galaxy
which houses my lust for another magnificent piece,
I am weightless and I float,
I am nothing but the treasures which come in a boat,
taking shore to the bank of my consciousness,
glimmers of gold and trinkets of lore
the paper speaks back to me,
each stroke I lavish a part of me,
left behind from me,
for someone else
to sit, to sit in silence,
and to drink in the galaxy
which I stored
in that single
drawing