Kinesthesia from the inkwells
and a stream of consciousness –
there’s a burst where only moments,
signs, appeared in patches,
underwritten (undermined) by no commitment.
Slow ‘volution of a universe (voice)
hidden to the without, within, but
imitation, absorbing everalways,
knights the individual
and gifts emergence.
Harbour down, I’ll have gotten practice.
Onto prophets by the fire and the
knowledge gleaned from that. I’ll
understand the craft, somewhat, with
skills beaten out across the decades.
Anything before the final stretch: a stumble.
I’ll be, by the end of it, an artist.
Image credit – Masterpiece Art
william altoft 