Ode to Art

The paper blank, just like the beaming snow.

The wood danced and slid across the page.

The pencils grey, like the ash from a fire afterglow.

And the drawing started to embrace like the coming of age.

Almost like a camera, a copier, or a printer.

The man, only a human, could created a masterpiece.

With just a stick of wood, she built up from the empty winter.

And created a window on paper and a quiet world of peace.

She illustrates what’s on her mind.

Like how a writer types what they would like to say.

Her hands move freely, to anyone not an artist she is a gifted human designed.

Other artist’s know it is not that strange because it gets easier once you look past the black, white , and grey.

Look at the world just like it is as of now.

Pain, beauty, and hope up on the silver screen.

Once the artist picks up her tool it’s a miracle somehow.

The power of art can make a pencil a crown and an artist a queen.

There is no analysis or explanation to this miracle called art.

No textbook, data set, or book to make sense of.

Like a faint whisper in a silent room that can tell us all apart.

Like a glimmer of destiny when someone falls in love.

The pencil in hand led the lady to her destinations.

And the artist took the tool and her instrument in uniformation.

There is no lead, no instrument, no key.

Just the tool and the artist as one imagination let free.

They say different eyes see different things.

Different minds create the same sense of peace.

Each portrait different from the rest.

But the emotions and understanding like the ending of the ultimate test.

Life makes us realize things we don’t notice, we don’t sense.

But O, to be an artist and put the unknowingness to vest.

O, to be an artist and have my hopes and dreams expressed.

O, to be an artist and have my struggles and pain compressed.

O, to be an artist and have even the most of miracles impressed.

O, to the artist your art has been blessed.

O, to art the beauty at rest.

O, to the art.

O, to art.