Sketches of a perfect thing

Drawn from liquid ink
a solid form surfaces
and bleeds through layers
of cut up forests
soaked and dried and
torn from notebooks
that rest in the hands of cautious men
who refuse to pursue the dreams they have so carefully documented
but the fountain pen has sprung a leak
and the pencil is forgotten
as the shapes become solid
and the white flowers bloom in the negative space
that has now been so clearly defined
and the men watch
and the women watch
and the children are afraid but they watch anyway
as this new thing takes shape
making blacks of grays
making lines of hatching
and it was worth all of the waiting
all of the trials and troubles
all of the uncertainties
because this is beauty
this is expression
this is the end