I may be Art
in the way that he was, she was
in the way that you,
most certainly, are
in its truest form
in its own brilliance,
a sun that blazes away
the yellowy shadows
and the unnecessary haze
of each new day.

I may be Art
spoken aloud in a bustling room
above the clank
of coffee cups
picked up and set back down
on wooden tables -
echoed in each scrape-sound
of every chair
as its drawn up closer
to this new stage.

I may be Art
that exists alone, for its own self
having found the virtue
of residing there
on the page, inside a drawer
of the small chest
within which beats a heart
that grows with every word
laid down, timidly
by a new sage.

I may be Art
not just the end state creation of it
nor the beautifully endless
process of it
but by the natural existence
of a self
now too large to ever
be fully captured
and as yet unrevealed
in some new play

I may be Art
but am not the artist
nor the representation -
that partial truth
that bled out onto the page -
I am rather (perhaps)
an artful essence
only ever partly reigned
regardless of enumerable attempts
on countless new days

I may be Art
created not for itself
but existing regardless
to be seen, understood
by the one consummate reader
that doesnt need the words -
the one that hears
whats never fully conveyed,
the one that reads me
In a new and different way.

Yes -
I may be Art

but if I am
I am only

for you.






Copyright © Silent-No-More ... [ 2006-07-10 07:52:12]
(Date/Time posted on site)