Perhaps,
Like curves of waves
Of east bound tides
Or rage of a surging storm
And eventual novelty of a sensual dawn
So is art hatched.

It’s the courtship
Of pen on paper
Primed with desire to unravel beauty
And obscurity
In the clammy palms
Of artistic porter

See,
It’s the crave of a chiseled sculptor
To chase grandeur from castoffs
It’s the convergence of the stars
On the bed of a blissful night
It’s the sunup of notions
Secreted
In the crevices of hearts of men.

It’s life

That puffs breath
In icy souls of men,
The caress of the wind
On the supple knees of trees
It’s the splendor of a moonlit sky.

Art is a paradise..