The Loneliness of Art

The silence oscillates around me,
not a soul stirs,
peace and tranquillity in every move
this loneliness unheard,
the emptiness in every stroke
every pencil shade I make,
as I pour my mood onto my paper
and wonder which direction to take ?
Can I find the words I seek,
to devour this open need ?
Can I fill the missing blanks
and gorge within this feed ?

Can I produce a masterpiece,
or a discontented muddle,
as I put my pen on paper
and my brain try to unfuddle.
My art can take me many places,
in the story of a rhyme,
in the whisper of the darkened trees,
in the drifting of a time,
in the hallows of my deepest soul,
in the passage of my dreams,
as I write and draw so furiously
is my life just as it seems ?

Or is it something I can unfurl
from this memory that I make,
or will I remain a dark enigma
twirling shadows that i take,
as the pictures dance from the pencil tip
and the stories that I find,
as I empty all my solitude
from the recess of my mind.