Studio

Life forms spring from depths of cold,
newborn, re-born from the old and dead decay:
the artist in his studio is death
and death's relentless progress,
death arrived, yet death not yet come:
sudden splashes of color re-vitalize
the slashes of line, and form becomes
almost divine, creations from the never-known
the never understood prickly path of choice
the merely glimpse into "barely", a seminal bath
where all comes with clashes of planets
and explosions, expulsions,
a never ending re-creation of universes...
mind and mass from black, zero born,
a spark, lightening flashed, circuits exploding
the artist - by his easel - stands, with death - impassive -
waiting to receive, to form, to touch and die:
creation is a secret, death is the secret zone
and the universe becomes a precarious point:
hand outstretched, reaching to be touched
the artist must wait - with death - but ever alone.