Art Poem by Mark E Webster

Art

Rating: 5.0


Art

What wakes you in the night
before the course of sleep is through?
What lifts you to the crucible site
Where a blank canvas awaits you
And with thumping heart, hot blood surging,
you wrestle with your demons, god or muse.
You wield your instruments, daubing, twirling
seeking to inspire, excite, amuse
and shine like a diamond piercing dark,
becoming colour, becoming words, becoming sound.
You're riding rhythm, slicing syntax, making marks.
Your vein popping synergy knows no bounds.
You make a devil's pact and sell your soul
to the man who plies his trade in time and dreams.
Your heart pumps to the beat of rock and roll.
You're looking for salvation in extremes.
Only the highest, only the deepest, only the brightest.
Helpless in your appetite for risk and sensation.
Seeking new vistas beyond a sun smoked horizon.
And like a slick skinned smith pounding white hot iron
you're sweating blood, straining sinews, snapping synapses, burgeoning brain and heart
for the now, for the light, for the life, for the soul. for the art.

Sunday, September 21, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: Art
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