Imagination travels in a black carriage
with tightened reins.
It finds new cracks in the table,
hovers over the floor, and crash-lands
in a lake of ink.

Imagination is wilder than a runaway fire,
greater than all utopias,
and the elder sister of all religions.

Imagination is yes, yes, yes—never no, no, no.
It is a serpent ever-growing,
shedding its paper skin across the tables.

Imagination is the opposite of a poisoned expectation,
seeping into us through generations.
Imagination is the joy of being an outsider.
Imagination is the child in its purest form.

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If you question your art,
paint your canvas deep with doubt.

If you stand on the outside looking in,
let your words spill over with solitude.

If you have mastered it all, read it all, know it all,
then turn back home and shut the door.

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