You stand before the canvas unaware,
How soul and body tremble in your hand,
Enliven sketches, carving forth their light,
Till something wild emerged from silent white.
My gaze abides lonesome, hushed within your room—
No lauds assembled for your careful wrist.
Yet in the buzzing tide of thoughts you loom,
A sovereign presence, none that I could kiss.
Each stroke, each word— a root beneath our veins,
Unseen, yet binding heaven to the bone.
A philocalist where bright Apollo’s been,
We grasp at life, to make into our own.
We yearn for truth, from neurotic, mortal art,
Yet life stands free beyond the poet’s heart.
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