The Rough griddle edge of the charcoal brick lays down the shadow.
Black dust rises from the two-dimensional plane and all of a sudden the sketch takes form.
From the page the shade rises.
Crawls from the gloom and is instantly colored by it’s surroundings.
Consumed by the abundance of light
No longer a silhouette the free-formed figure has become a beautifully animated Butterfly, and may take flight.
To fly away from its cocoon knowing that he is doomed,
That soon enough the sands of time will smudge his wings
And the poor thing will be stuck on the brink of an afterlife.
If there is such a thing for a Black and White Butterfly sketched at the whim of some pathetic guy who is wasting his lonely life with stick figures and charcoal drawings.
But,
If not for his imagination the world might crumble
Crushed under the weight of so many troubles
He is creating his dreams only to be reduced to rubble
So that he might learn to be humble in the rush of Now
And I ask myself How can this guy rise the not so alive with his brush,
When he cannot even trust in himself to create death from beauty.
Or such a thing
This man can withstand the test of time, as he escapes within his own mind.
Leaving the shackles of a tormented childhood behind.
The picture may fade away, but the butterfly inside will never be released from his cage. And The Rage
Erased and replaced with constructive outlets
Reading, writing, or remembering regrets,
Hoping that I never forget the rain,
Praying that I never suppress the pain.
These two things are all that remains of the darker side,
