Some sketched lines to remind of what is seen,
But it is quite the other way,
Life comes out of art,
Provides the 3D,
For the great imagination
To steal scenes and tableaus
From the generous palette of the field.
They would multiply into cities
Were it not for the poor cramped hand
Of the painter, who calls the struggle
With his will a question of his sanity,
To protect some sacrosanct separation
Between the hand and the eye
From the ever-elusive mind, the one thing
That won't be contained in any form.
There is only what is left on the ground,
The impoverished architecture
Of what can’t be grown
Out of the genius of all that is.
The visible trees
With colors impossible to see
And movements too nuanced to track
Want to break free from the sky
That holds them down
And express who they are,
What they can be
In the longing and the glory
Of the other thing
Inside us all
That dares to call a dream
As it's waiting to be born.
