The Art

The pencil gently greats the gift from a tree As the mind starts to visualize a hoard of thoughts My dreams... my imagination At first being confound, luring me in every which direction Finding the path, my inner soul drags me along Almost as if dancing to the smooth sound of song Then the idea appears, staring down upon me The work of art truly begins without a plea Laying down more etchings, more marks Ideas swarming like a pool of sharks Becoming more visual, accommodating lines are seen Some etched, some lean With negative space becoming abundent Some say it's hideous, others brilliant But to the creator... Words are redundant