Contemplative Art Poem by RoseAnn V. Shawiak

There are no keys to imagination, it lies within,
waiting to be explored, met and shown through
creative genius and art.
It stands waiting for incredible voyeurs to gather
notes, words, pictures, paintings for an eternal
gallery to posterity of what we hold within our
minds.
Listening to inner voices, hearing what most never
hear because they don't listen to their souls or
interior lives.
Disquieting stress cannot penetrate this solitary
field, full of desert acres.
Contemplative works of art being created daily,
outlasting each of us as we travel into death.
Yes, there are no keys to imagination, we are
forever indebted to ourselves, as we listen to our
mind's inner whispering being foretold to all the
world.