Transcendence

An artist’s pen denounced its owner’s hand
The strokes about the canvas free of waste
A product of a master oh so grand
An outline tracing figures not yet chaste

Begetting perfect form with peerless style
To shade the structured body, birthing class
With curves that stun the viewer’s eye, beguiled
A profile dripping ink onto the glass

The features of the face begin to form
Almost as if the tool loses control
For no composer holds an equal storm
Inside their brain to recreate your soul

A gaze at you entices every eye
For beauty recognized should not be shy

1 2