There is a spark I feel and it is a precious thing. As the building crumbles the fire flares inside. I am a painter, an art form dead generations before. I don’t care the flame shall be nurtured, it calls my name.
Through the Pane
I don’t like to plan, so much to do. Grand aspirations only seem to disappoint. The tedious artistic attitude, dissatisfied with work. I appreciate the positives regardless of the height. Nothing competes with the feeling of creation. Something new and alive, glimpsed through the pane.