A world unwinds before my seeking sight,
Broad landscapes stretch, or moments catch the light.
The seed of art, a yearning for the true,
Demands I take the tools and make it new.
Can lines and phrases match the scene I find?
Or like a photo, freeze a fleeting mind?

My chosen field, the canvas of the word,
By unseen forces stirred and sometimes blurred.
I turn the dials of meaning, cadence, sound,
Adjust the focus 'til the heart is found.
The world is raw, unfiltered by my hand,
This wilderness in language waits command.

A whispered prompt, a question softly sown,
To guide the unseen poet yet unknown.
No simple order issued to the void,
But yearning laid where meaning is employed.
Emotion bleeds like color through the scene,
The tools enhance the beauty, though unseen.

A flash of insight, captured from the mind,

Or lines that twist and turn with thoughts refined.
Perhaps the truth shines bright, an image stark,
Or hints of doubt and shadows leave their mark.
Like shutter snapping, then the pause to view,
I scan the lines that form, both old and new.

Each iteration, like a further glance,
Provides the path to deeper resonance.

To blend the real, the felt, the soul laid bare,
My spirit echoed in the words I share.
Is this my craft alone, or something more,
When hand and unseen mind the work explore?

Some verses gleam like jewels in rough terrain,
While others fade, and must be forged again.
And so, like photos stitched to find their form,
My fragments merge, a poem newly born.
Though echoes from the ether find their space,
I leave my mark on lines the AI does trace.

In final touches, where true art resides,
My words refine as darkness softly hides.
Fine-tuned and polished, where the meaning gleams,
No mere machine could shape a world of dreams.
These words I offer, fragile, potent, bold,
The human spirit on the page unrolled.

The camera and the verse, with lenses trained,
Seek not to copy but to render changed.
With artist's hand, and lines that twist and flow,
New meanings from the unseen depths will grow.
Not tools alone, but minds in sweet entwist,
The poet's heart gives image to the mist.

Let critics doubt the spirit in the line,
The human artist, sharpened and refined.
The lens I use, no matter what the age,
My purpose guides the poem on the stage.
Through light or words, it matters not to me,
For human touch shall set the spirit free.