When I held a brush for the first time

When I held a brush
for the very first time,
a warm glow in a dizzying rush,
defined my new paradigm.

It was talking to me
in some language that
I spiritually sensed,
and could somehow understand.
Putting thoughts in my head
of people, places and events,
and a feeling
that I had it all planned.

Dipping deep into
colors that seemed endless;
flourishing in a sea of
tint, hue, shade light and tone.
Dancing its drip on a canvas,
my own story was told.
Patterns were revealed
the more I would surrender
and yield,
for as if by magic,
the contents they traced,
emerged from the invisible fabric
hidden within the empty space.

Recognizable forms,
were self-shaping
from some power
I couldn’t see,
although there
was certainly no mistaking
that this power
was coming from me.

Then I scribbled
some words upon a page,
writing in a tongue,
not of mind, but of a heart
that was soulfully engaged
in a song to be sung.

And so it was,
that he rediscovered
what he had known, long ago,
that his art,
was to free his love heard
from within his head,
down to his tippy-toe.

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