My tools speak to me.

As an artist, my soul's decree,
Is rooted deep, profoundly free.
Before my hand can ever start,
To pour its passion, form its art,
A sacred threshold I must tend,
Where preparation has no end.

My very tools must speak to me,
A language felt, intuitively.
Each brush, each blade, each sliver, shard,
Must whisper tales, however hard
The silence seems. They hum and call,
Before my spirit stands up tall
And dares to shape, to cut, to gleam,
Or manifest a vibrant dream.

And then, the quest for rarity,
A singular discovery.
I scour realms, both seen, unseen,
For elements that stand serene,
Distinctly carved, uniquely born,
Beyond the common, never worn.
The most unique, the chosen few,
From which my wild designs accrue.

For only when these threads entwine,
The speaking tool, the rare design,
Can true creation take its flight,
And pour its form in purest light.
This union's breath, this silent pact,
Is how my artistry is tracked.
To find the voice, the hidden grace,
And then, with purpose, to design its place.