By Olyver LaGabed, Contributing Writer
They say that an artist’s pen speaks an artist’s mind – drawn image a pathway into complex planes
of thought, drawn image, an ode to those loved most.
An ideal I never believed until the day I noticed
the slope of your shoulders in my lines, the crevice of your hands in my sketches – your loved image
seeping into my truthful medium long after you were gone.
They say that a good couple counts – and lord knows we counted the months, days, hours, and seconds.
Five hundred forty-eight days, but only one way of saying that I ever loved you, art, my language,
you, my vocabulary. You’ve long since stopped counting, yet I still continue sketching.
And endlessly, I create. I see your image everywhere: in my art, in the threads of my nature,
all at once speaking now and forever holding my peace.
