Wednesday, September 23, 2015
Monday, September 21, 2015
art is subjective
A gallery of faces and not a name to remember.
You place your finger to your lips and look into their countenance.
Your index erect as your thoughts and desires.
Are you working or walking?
You pause, at the pallid and cool spritely expression.
Your gaze wanders to me, and question so much without words.
"How did I never know this?"
A museum of memories and not a future to unfold.
You heave a sigh, and move along.
Just like the other nameless ones.
The gallery is empty.
I never bought a painting after that.
You place your finger to your lips and look into their countenance.
Your index erect as your thoughts and desires.
Are you working or walking?
You pause, at the pallid and cool spritely expression.
Your gaze wanders to me, and question so much without words.
"How did I never know this?"
A museum of memories and not a future to unfold.
You heave a sigh, and move along.
Just like the other nameless ones.
The gallery is empty.
I never bought a painting after that.
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