I sat in a golden night with a stick of lead.

Peace and tranquility filled my wistful head.

An insomniac pleasure of expressions left on paper.
Like a flash that ignited the wick of taper.

What others see, I observe.

What others yearn, I reserve.

I am an artist from day to night.

As long as the tintinnabulation played,

In my head I shall remain

To stain those of lacking creative sustain.

A wall, a ball, a glass you people call “tall”.

I worked in a stall to make money for all

A charity you may call it

I saw it as practice, so that’s what I called it.

I even drew a chocolate

It was a request, don’t be dreary.

These little things we call art

How funny do they look?

How funny do they smell?

They even make sounds for you, who cares.

I make them for you to stare.

From an archairchal impression

entirely made into modern impression.

After years of exploration,

I sat there in mad expostulation

With whom do I reason?

To myself for no reason.

In a snap of a finger

I wake up from a trance to linger

In reality,

What was once golden heat,

Is now a bronze breeze.

Only the sky will tell

When the ground shall turn silver.

Whether it be silver, bronze, or gold

I am an artist living for one goal.

To express, not to impress.