My life began
As a line
And further and further the line progressed,
Leaving something of a mess,
The mess became scribbles
And along the way left ripples
Of an artists sketch,
The mess became stunning
But scribbles aren't ever seen as cunning,
Imperfections are shunned
And flaws are despised,
Leaving the mess compromised,
How could it grow with such spite?
Only under the artists provision could it find the might
For a masterpiece was his sight,
The artist wanted to finish
He wanted the scribble to know that no one could diminish
his work,
For he saw it's beauty when it was only just a line,
But great art
Takes time