Running after the end game
but it caught me here
finding the beginning
again
it keeps coming
so I progress no further than the start
swallowing demigods
every night
and the filament
is flickering
a new beat
a new rhythm
a burnt orange flavored cast
on careful crimes
I can't forget
This five-chaptered story
of
aching love
bleeding all over
another
un-made bed
filling the days
and most nights
But now I'm late
and chapter six
is writing itself
inside someone else
a foreign body
an unspoken, unbroken code
Just lay the book on my chest
feel the words
leave the words
keep your word
I cant help but search for meaning or patterns in these words. Maybe its because we are pattern-seeking mammals that our ancestors honed to avoid danger when the world was far darker and more dangerous. the artist who paints sometimes claims that the work has no meaning. that the meaning is what the viewer takes away. is evey work of art really just one Rorschach test after another? I don't believe that at all. actually I think that artists use their medium to tell the world about themselves and let that stand as the last testament of who they were. its not a mirror for someone else its them. in the oil. in the words. in the movements. a long way of saying I guess, what does this mean?
ReplyDeleteLate night ramblings after discovering I'll be bringing another baby into this world in 2016..
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