From the moment we cry while gasping for air:
we're set on a path with our ass unaware.
Crafted with parallels and classic affairs;
we grow up walking the grass and the stairs.
Feeling the field and yielding experience:
imaginations expand during meaningless periods.
Life being its dreariest becomes part of the mold
and how pasts are painted is the art of the soul.
Snarky and cold like George Carlin (condoled),
or hearty and wholesome from the start of our growth
we embark on a road. No need explaining the riddle
when the path is more important, and the destination is simple.
Elated a little with the work he candidly will show
as each step allows the personality to grow.
Pertinent talent in his strokes when painting a picture.
Drawing subjects as fiends with heinous conditions,
until watercolor fills their veins as elixirs.
Details so strong in the frame they're breaking the fixtures.
Each step taken is a reflection that colors concrete:
his concepts get monstrous and grow from the plot at his feet.
The older he gets the more innocence is lost to the breeze
and trails of his doodles follow his lead.
Oblivious to the opinionated: It's gospel, god speed.
Without hostility, he's off to succeed;
his beard as his brush and the world is his palette.
His imagination the only thing not malnourished or challenged.
He climbs the stairs to his personal carriage
where he plants his ideas into artwork on the panels.
Merchants will scowl, and sworn vigilance
can be heard coming from the Lord Business',
but that doesn't detain him from drawing more images.
The more risque the location, the more formed interest is.
He lives by a conduct that's rarely meant to please.
The place at the top of the stairs is where the dead'll meet.
His pictures are simply squares he left to be;
and his life, just like that, is a temporary legacy.
@
Aero @
Aero the Apex