I'm an artist
I paint worlds with my keyboard.
My brush-strokes are words.
The oil I deep my brush into
drips
from a priesthood higher than Aaron's beard.
The rhythm of my strokes
are synonymous
with the heartbeat of salvation.
Realism knows relatively nothing about
the reality that I relate when I exhale
on my Microsoft canvas.
The points I make point out each self-evident truth,
yet, from a perspective of pointillism,
they collectively point to the whole truth - The only Truth.
This craft existed before me
and will transcend every iota of the
knowledge of my existence.
The renaissance met & left it
and civilization only recognizes ancestry
because this craft laid the foundation for what
vestiges of "awareness" we can glean.
I picked up the brushes where the fathers dropped them,
my biological and otherwise lineage will
wave the canvas when I conclude my patriotic duty.
It is the only craft that will stand where
and when all knowledge self-destructs.
The craft of words
Eternal words
Elion's words...
Image Credit: Leonid Afremov on aliexpress.com
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