Art is an illusion and can be whatever you want it to be….Sketches are my backbone,both in words and action.
Pencil expresses what pen cannot find in words…..
So here I lay,eyes to the ceiling,
Lost in the day,like winters hay
Do we even have winter?
But I hear my heartbeat grow fainter
As words escape my mind
So my hands don’t lag behind
As fingers come in sync with pencil
To do a sketch without a bushel
And lamp aboard to crack the nutshell
Of sorrows lying behind the bunsen
Burner of light within the dark
Gloomy room of lost treads
So may I find peace where words break in to piece
I mean pieces of lost Yesterdays
As I can only hold onto Today.