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The Artist's Eye

Curling contours and concentric circles hum
Past swirls of sparkling spectrums,
Beautiful and brilliant.
Shades of shocking pinks, emeralds and aquamarines,
Of scarlets and goldenrods and tangy citruses.
Twisted spirals and jagged angles connect to one another
Rotating and adjusting themselves to coagulate correctly
And fit into the proper shape with rich proportions and elegance
To make one’s eyes swim before it.
But presently, eyes are dry and bored of the
Mundane slate grays,
Morphed lazily into stiff, non fluid shapes,
Steaming with the bland, flat edges of everyday life
Through a routine gaze-
No bumps, no scoops, no curls- just pin straight lines.
Until the lines are snapped like rubber bands,
Instead of keeping together, they shatter
Into millions of foggy bits of what’s better off gone.
The artist brushes the blank canvas paper-
Blood begins to pump through veins,
Beads of sweat collect on a focused brow
And a busy hand is rhythmically dancing,
Opening the floodgates to a new pair of eyes
And a limitless imagination.



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