The
art we live as rosy as star pain
ever
we perish for a dim heartbeat.
The
art we live as toxic as scar pain
to
explode a nerve and ill on repeat.
We
feel it to explain it driven into comas. Its art for
alchemy
a silent anthem a private war. He spoke a
ballad
through a clarinet and strummed a harp. She
cried
a lament to suffer an organ as abstract as
therapy.
The lights were dim to filter concepts and
pull
out thoughts. Something for gothic a dream
starving
a kinetic voice. He gestured softly to meet
with
passion and droplets of pain. Something
twinkled
between boulders to climb a ballad. They
nigh’d
to witness palms a subtle duet. Sadness
mingled
with joy to define color explained in symbols.
I
watched to struggle genres unsteady for a mural.
They
stood in miracles and silken sighs and steel toe
cries.
I marveled that love could paint through mere
glance
and sightless to feel this deeply. I took to skis
sliding
downhill while sitting in observation. She
gestured
for a name where he stared in fluids. He
responded
as a child in a sandbox, to witness for hives
of
art work. They aquatinted a tub of abstract rivers as
nervous
as puppies.
