From the Hand of Mere Mortal Creation
From the hands of an artist, fragments arise,
A world crafted bold, where imagination flies.
Hand-carved forms, aged and wise,
Shimmer like secrets beneath coppery skies.
Recycled tin bends into a whispered song,
While gilded threads pull the art along.
A map of shadows, both sharp and sheer,
Traces compositions born of tender fear.
Glass shards flash, with edges ablaze,
Moonlight threading their prismatic maze.
A rusting auger, its teeth dulled by frost,
Tells of winters endured and moments lost.
Suspended—a Mongolia tree sways light,
Its branches arch in the hush of night.
Beneath, tarpaulin wrinkles like skin so cold,
Layered with whispers of resilience untold.
Steel pipes erupt from earth, coarse and worn,
Against the sand’s quiet grains—soft and torn.
A straw summer hat, cradling forgotten tales,
Casts shadows like sails of weathered gales.
A whip handle freezes, its arch forlorn,
Draped in fake fur, matted and worn.
Black fish glide in shadows, sleek and low,
Under gaucho ropes where myths still flow.
Silk ribbons curl like breaths unsung,
Telling of caravans and lands once young.
Dread wig strands form clumped decay,
Resins cling where memory frays.
Crocheted ducks nest in origami fold,
Paper stained in hues both tender and bold.
Each piece laments and celebrates light,
A storm of art in warm, fleeting sight.
Through raw beginnings and bold rebirth,
The fragments bloom with untamed worth.
Under skies vast as eternity’s span,
The artist shapes life with a steady hand.
Pieces converge, each tethered to soul,
Boundless in form, yet part of the whole.
