Art is birthed in
solitude,
As everything good needs
People who can first see,
Inside their own souls,
And then pierce others’
veils.
Rarely but surely,
That solitude comes,
When we are not alone.
Being at peace within,
In someone else’s presence.
And in rarest of rare
cases,
Art is birthed in
turmoil.
Like torrential rains,
Forcing the unnoticed moving,
Of an arm on a shoulder.
But where are those
rains?
Those people? The time?
The rain and the people-
Outside our control.
Time, we must find.
Time’s been scarce here,
But intuition says,
It’s only a matter of little
time,
For time to arrive- with
solitude,
So, we can reassess who we
are now,
And our relationship with
words.
