Some secrets are right there,

in the sand, they lay bare.

For a few days,

I, manned that blaze.

I lit a fire so great,

that it moved me, to create.

I didn't have much in my tent,

in my wallet, I didn't have a singe cent.

I lived in a castle, built by a gigantic dune,

its halls hummed that ancient tune.

In the day I'd gather firewood,

come the eve I'd have a potato, that tasted so good.

I neither searched for a beginning nor the end,

I merely wanted to find idea's edge, to my own content.

It was right there,

but it was not in the horizon, nor the fire's flare.

It was in living at a proper pace,

and sleeping in the right place.

The pace at which you live your days,

must match your interest, and remain, in phase.

Composing Music and Painting Art,

are unique and worlds apart.

In art we race to paint,

but in music we must practice restraint.

The eye can't see,

what the ear can hear.

Though both require layers to become thick,

paintings rain, while music goes tick by tick.

Each requires a different place,

and a walk about at a distinct pace.

There are many out there that move all wrong,

sadly, they will never finish their painting, or their song.

And when it was time go back whence I came,

I rolled up my tent, and put out the flame.

Somebody else down the trail, instantly lit another fire,

and pondered their own wisdom, to their own desire.

I waddled back, my painted walking stick in hand,

slowly marking notes, beats, and measures in the sand.

Now, whenever I try to learn something new,

I wait for time to give me a clue.