Whatever philosophers mean
With poetry being a release
From being born
The time of that moment of
Being conceived
And growing in ones mother’s
Until such time of the subconscious
Developing layers of conscious
Is sacred time.
Yet questions of existence will be
Present at all times
In all our acts and decisions.

For the artist it’s one thing:
The burning urge to create and
In this continual process
He advances to become an artist
Besides the genes an artist inherited
The point of being conceived
Will be directed by the powers
Of the universe.

So then: artist breathe
With every breath the poet places
A word to the skin of a page
With every change of breathing
The artist advances his drawing
To a crescendo of brush strokes
For which he had endured the pains
Of birth of an idea.

Whatever happens in one’s life
Has been happening before
Whoever we meet
We have met already before
Whoever we love
We have loved before.
The future is now.


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