this thing
called art
brush strokes
smeared across
a rainbow world
tantric words imagined
sprawled across
each frantic page
what if
one pedantic
could simply sit
next to the painter
watch and listen
beside the poet
as they work
what mystical lines
magically worked
what might pierce
our wanting hearts
what if splendour
left colourful spatters
incarnations within
our very soul
like scented
red carnations
reaching out
within that goal
what if spirit
reached out
touching us
taking us
to some other high place
upon some apex
where we might
look down
viewing
every haunting painting
alertly staring down
studying each staunch poem
tethers in that sacred realm
beneath a spiritual dome
something fractured happens
making it home
innocence is sadly forsaken
intuition becomes rapture
captured inspiration
like wondrous shapeless water
reshaping every inch of the world
each a gift of sacred life
creating this divine world
eccentric untold perfection
concentric circles with pure intention

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