Sonnet: A Master of Art

His art when he feels is about to ebb;
Or reaches a point of disappearance;
This is the place he must start his romance,
And like a spider create his best web.

His mind and soul are blended with his art;
There follows spate of a new energy;
His art has turned to immortality;
The job of creation o’er-fills his heart.

And if he should go on undaunted still,
In to domains new and landscapes unseen;
Success appears no more a task uphill;
His life of art is bathed in a new sheen.

The Master Artist is more made than born,
With labor/ luck/ time every night and morn.

poem by John Celes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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