Art As The Sky
Art is sometimes like The Sky.
And yet, sometimes I feel myself floating and flying through it.
Like daydreams that find you,
And suddenly saturate the mind upon your person,
Flowing as currents that move,
Floating,
Flying,
Motion.....
There is no time,
You are completely free.
You are there, and always there...
Until you are not.
And, just as I reach it,
or be it,
or, am it...
Carried upon my person,
Filling the pockets upon my person,
What seems like forever.....
.....becomes fleeting.
The pockets become empty,
Pockets full of silence,
The empty pockets upon my person...
No pockets upon my person...
No sky within that which environs me...
For what would seem like a crash,
There is no crash.
Inertia is blunt.
Art is like The Sky....
And, yet, I can never reach it.
The confines of what environs me within it's pockets,
upon its person...
The Nothingness which prevents me restitution,
Is the Somethingness which vetoes my recompense hence.
And, altho' I feel myself as The Sky...
I am The Sky.
I was The Sky.
Art is as The Sky...
And, tho' I could fly...
I couldn't reach it.
Art was as The Sky....
Inertia pressed me to cry,
Thus, I could never reach it...
Like a drop of color into the stream,
I dissolve into mass of flow,
But, it was beneath The Sky....
Didn't you know?
Sometimes, Art is like The Sky....
Tho' I flew,
I could never fully reach it....
The Willows that flow in the breeze represent my mind.
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