All things black and colourful…
He doesn’t sketch people.
He traces emotions, and smudges feelings.
With every stroke his pen makes,
He marks a flawless smile; shades the faintest fault;
Erases that “flawless” mask; and adorns the darkness beneath with flourishes…..
He doesn’t just sketch people…. He creates them.
All things black and wonderful….
He doesn’t mould clay.
He stares at the least presentable substances, and picks the least presentable of them all.
Then, with his hands, he teaches it to adapt to his imagination.
And transforms their flaws — their scars — into something unimaginable; something wonderful — something presentable….
No, he doesn’t mould…. He perfects.
All things black and beautiful…
He doesn’t write words.
He sits by the window, peering and smiling at nothingness.
His entity lives in this world,
But his essence lives in another —
It is in that world that he creates accidents on purpose; perfects imperfections; twists the laws of nature; sketches the Artists; and moulds the Potter.
Just by staring into nothingness….
And he doesn’t just write words…. He creates worlds.
I am black. I am beautiful. But aren’t we all?