The Pattern of an Artist

The Pattern of an Artist

Circles whisper into circles,

quiet echoes stitched in thought,

colour leans against colour,

as if it knows where it belongs.

Nothing here is placed by accident,

every curve remembers its reason.

A pulse moves beneath the surface,

soft, then sudden, then still,

like breath held in painted silence,

like a secret waiting to be seen.

The eye travels and never settles,

caught in a dance without ending.

Threads of gold and green awaken,

tiny worlds inside each shape,

each mark a voice that lingers,

each line a road that bends.

You feel it more than you name it,

a language older than speech.

There is no straight path here,

only turning, only return,

a quiet storm of careful making,

a restless, steady hand.

The artist leans into the unknown,

and finds a pattern staring back.

And in that mirror of motion,

a truth begins to grow,

that beauty is not perfection,

but the courage to begin.

To place one mark beside another,

and trust the unseen will hold.

So the pattern keeps on breathing,

never finished, never still,

a living map of wonder,

a soft defiance of the void.

And somewhere in its endless turning,

the artist finally feels whole.

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