The Art of Stain
(passions of the art are stained)
Pens are the tools I use to create.
Although many would think that’s bizarre.
Seeing the marks of these constant mistakes.
Subduing the innocent splendor of art.
I share not a lie, for my voice isn’t mute.
Outnumbered perspective, a tone of the truth .
Now I proclaim that the fact is a base.
So that pasts are eternal and cannot erase.
On pages they’re written, endless in time.
For the filling of phase, and the comfort of rhyme.
Ticking hands turn, to the telling of age.
Heaving the stones that bury its weight.
Empowerment in infinity, my pen touches down.
As life is expression to pass on the sound.
Reading each word clearly, no matter its name.
To the art of the mind and the portrait of pain.
Another soft notion, as life passes on.
Remember the beat that leads through the song.
Evoke all the passions to uncover the fear.
Stained on this page with the artists revere.
Today is tomorrow, as each day the next.
And fault is a sight of the artist at best.
Inert in emotion, this science prevails.
Now life is the art, the gift of its tale.
Everlasting in memory, the ink strokes through.
Deciding what’s best for me and for you.
- Title: The Art of Stain
- Artist: Icklejabob
- Description: this is a poem i wrote yesterday, its about pasts, presents and futures, and how we cannot live primarilly in any of them, but a mark of the pen lies in all three world, for pasts cannot erase, it is complete and clear for the present, and every word is a string to the next. just in case your having trouble understanding the metaphors
- Date: 03/18/2009
- Tags: stain