Art

Art bleeding out the pores,
The pains and joys that it’s expressing, flowing from out the core,
The wholly stock and store of a soul shaking itself from slumber,
Seeking in it a lesson to offer umbrage instead of lumber.

A stage set in its components, wood and screws and paint to sway perceptions of what would otherwise be malaise and restraints,
Seeking to stake a claim in saints and statesmen, a sinner or a psychopath sincerely, to make a statement:

I am here to be heard and seen, and so I shall transition between silence and screams in the scenes you soak up laughing and crying while the character lives a short while then dies when the lights fade finale night.

It is blood in blues and greens, hues dripped and stroked deliberately on a canvas screen,
Marrying technique to passion,
To demonstrate something that has or never will happen.

This lump of bronze, this mound of clay, this block of marble shall be swayed to say something that’s never been expressed before,
Ungarbling the thought in this head, unlodged.

Quietly, in a corner, writing furiously,
Dancer’s feet bound ritually and dutifully,
A moment of silence the orchestra hits as the maestro pauses them with his quick baton’s twist,
These are the heart that art in resides,
But their worth is a lie that hides in our pride.

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