Time's Craftwork Edges Me On
(19.5 X 25.5 in.)
more: www.justinduerr.com
WHAT HAND HAS TRACED THE CURVE OF THE EYE OF THE RAREST OF BIRDS - WHO ALONE GRACES WITH WATCHFUL PRESENCE THE CANOPY OF THE UNMOLDED HEAVENS. AND WHAT HAND HAS GRASPED THE FURTHEST SWEEPING CURVE OF A SUPERNAL FEATHER WHICH TUMBLED THROUGH THE CLOUDS LIKE A TRAIL OF CALLIGRAPHY, ONLY SEEN ONCE IN HISTORY, AND ONLY ABLE TO OCCUR IN THE FUTURE. WHAT HAND HAS SET THE STAGE UPON WHICH WE PLAY, UNAWARE OF ANY MACHINATION BEYOND THE UNLIVING ROOM WHICH CONTAINS OUR ENSOULMENT. THE HAND THAT WINDS THE CLOCKWORK ON WHICH OUR HEARTS ARE SET, THE ENGINE OF POTENTIALITY, DRIVING THE CREATION OF FROZEN, UNCHANGEABLE MOMENTS. (Time's craftwork edges me on in compulsive desire to feel it's will move through my fingers. The poem's fate is unknown, sealed in a filigreed box of impossible dimension. As one side of a reflection is pouring out of the eyes, hidden from their gaze, a curtain is pulled across one side of time. This is where ideas come from, and the hand which forged them awaits also to unwind our guts. The angles combine in consonancy, convolving inward until the tone congeals as this poem and the hand that records it's presence.)
Time's Craftwork Edges Me On
(19.5 X 25.5 in.)
more: www.justinduerr.com
WHAT HAND HAS TRACED THE CURVE OF THE EYE OF THE RAREST OF BIRDS - WHO ALONE GRACES WITH WATCHFUL PRESENCE THE CANOPY OF THE UNMOLDED HEAVENS. AND WHAT HAND HAS GRASPED THE FURTHEST SWEEPING CURVE OF A SUPERNAL FEATHER WHICH TUMBLED THROUGH THE CLOUDS LIKE A TRAIL OF CALLIGRAPHY, ONLY SEEN ONCE IN HISTORY, AND ONLY ABLE TO OCCUR IN THE FUTURE. WHAT HAND HAS SET THE STAGE UPON WHICH WE PLAY, UNAWARE OF ANY MACHINATION BEYOND THE UNLIVING ROOM WHICH CONTAINS OUR ENSOULMENT. THE HAND THAT WINDS THE CLOCKWORK ON WHICH OUR HEARTS ARE SET, THE ENGINE OF POTENTIALITY, DRIVING THE CREATION OF FROZEN, UNCHANGEABLE MOMENTS. (Time's craftwork edges me on in compulsive desire to feel it's will move through my fingers. The poem's fate is unknown, sealed in a filigreed box of impossible dimension. As one side of a reflection is pouring out of the eyes, hidden from their gaze, a curtain is pulled across one side of time. This is where ideas come from, and the hand which forged them awaits also to unwind our guts. The angles combine in consonancy, convolving inward until the tone congeals as this poem and the hand that records it's presence.)