It echoes in the lonely silences
an endless twisting rhyme that rules my world.
Not only sound, but color, rhythm, light,
it dances through my day and dreams my night.
I wake and free the rhythm and the rhyme
to twist the dance into a human form.
The story shapes itself--I have no part--
and dreams escape the boundaries of time.
I sleep and shape the color and the light,
then form a dream into reality.
The painting moves my hand--it is not planned--
a lonely dance of medium and life.
The art creates itself with paint or ink,
with quiet promises it leads me on.
The end of life, the last of this creation
shall be my final epitaph in stone.