Context – …
The still room’s black is nearly viscous, lamp
on drafting desk the only glow suffused.
Once sun escaped, identity decamped
from man, now boy, cartoons and hues enthused
his pens and quills and palettes. Sluice gates rose,
let flow the ink from air to mind to hand,
the paper’s figures, spirits juxtaposed
impossibilities in meadowlands.
He drew because he drew because he drew,
no verbs were left untested that could meet
the flow he’d know when solitude anew
of evenings let his muse-fed thoughts secrete.
Night freed him from days’ shackles of the flesh,
obsessiveness there mother of the fresh.