The Mind Holds the Brush--- AKSHR

 

The Mind Holds the Brush

He stands before the canvas, still—
No motion yet, no vibrant spill.
The colors sleep, the brushes rest,
But storms are swirling in his chest.

For art is born beyond the skin,
It grows where thought and dreams begin.
No trembling hand, no perfect line,
Can match the fire of the mind.

The hand obeys what thought commands,
But genius blooms in silent lands.
A flick of wrist means nothing true,
Unless the soul is painting too.

A stroke of blue is not just hue,
But skies he’s seen and traveled through.
A crimson slash—no idle smear,
But echoes of a hidden fear.

He does not paint what eyes can see,
But rather, what the soul might be.
Not muscle, bone, or practiced stance,
But memory, meaning, myth, and chance.

So judge not art by flawless frame,
Or steady hand, or worldly fame.
The canvas speaks, if you dare look—
It tells the tale the mind once took.

For brushes wait and colors fade,
But what the dreaming mind has made—
Lives on, beyond all human span…
For thought, not hand, defines the man.

AKSHR