28 April 2009

Ars Poetica

This is not art.

This is not art.
But an unfinished yet unabandoned conclusion.
I'll call it a start:
A beginning incomplete and never-ending, rather fresh and new each blinking eye.

This is not art.
This is me. This is you. This is us, we, them, true.
To some but home to many.
Blue to one, a zone to plenty.
An aching answer unquestioned unadorned
unfathomable, unawakened, unkept, and unsure.

Unremarkable while unmistakable and totally unmatched,
but unnearving and unready both, so willingly unhatched.

Uncertain yet unanswered a constant comfort, constant friend.
This is not art
This is a breathing
It's a being
A godsend..

Unexplained but who would try
to leave it sitting without reason?

This is not art
but to deny it so would be little less than treason..

This piece of something
Nameless nothing
That none can dare take credit for
This is not art,
it is an undefined accomplishment; a single one of many more

A simple ars poetica will have to suit its name.
This is not art.
This is not art.
This is not art,
nor it profane.

It's not a poem,
not a picture,
not a sonnet or a rhyme.
Not a composition, masterpiece, nor anything divine.

It is not this, nor is it that.
Neither he, nor is it she.
Just is, yet isn't-
Simply pleasant

(don't) try and guess it..
let it be.

28 April 2008.

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