Friday, February 13, 2015

on the nature of art

For years you've searched for it.  Overturned stones, peeled back fading wallpaper.  You found it once, or so you thought, scratches on vinyl when vinyl was still the only thing.  A song that skipped your favorite part.

Where the sun usually shines the brightest and longest, this was not where you expected it to be.  Swirls of soot-filled tar smeared artfully, tendrils extending to the very ends of you.  Post modern enough to deserve its own show.  You asked for a name, why wouldn't you?  Once someone is already in, you may as well be civilized.

The whispered reply, "I am your oldest friend."

Anything but that.  And yet.  It's all coming back, remember whens and moments as pictures.  Someone else was there.

It is a time for rituals, words that carry more than their sounds could possibly create and reverence that only silence can convey. Once complete, nothing remains.  Nothing that you can see unless you can see a promise in a seed.

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