Awakening Poem by Artchil Daug

My pencil, craving
the lines of clouds
on much bluer skies,
a resolve, a certainty,
producing a sunrise,
creating the sun,
inventing a land,
with people asking
for the easiest answers
found in a sketch
of a statue
with a head shining
in golden assurance,
a bodice that radiates
silver linings that hold
the brass covered scripture
sitting on lead shades
feeling the snap of the tip
that left its mark
on the paper, forever,
awakened from slumber.