ART

A walk at dawn and late-night buses, colors on abandoned walls, and places of playful thinking and loud voices.

Laughter as dark noises.

Excrements in the streets and smells. Sounds. A cleaning lady. City escapes.

To the outskirts of cities or land and from. Opinions opposing others or an own.

Superficiality, ingenuity, consensus-seeking, or running from?

Navigating through lively entanglement, finding a niche to fit in society, or finding society fitting the niche.

Or finding society, niche, and lady as sound and smell being the same.

As labeled perhaps they reach for the stars, leaving them relentlessly, giving up.

Breaking out in other terms. Collapsing, as another word.

Or breaking into a house, one's own. Another's.

Climbing up through windows, reaching then falling. Dropping into one's own.

But failing to enter somewhere or take.

Instead, leaving another something behind in the dirt between the wooden floorboards floating.

Cannot be seen anymore, remembered though,

as something new appearing in the cracks that open, as they show.

They hold memories in their palms. Crack open. Yet, were never closed.

A heart is racing somewhere. Is held by the hands of a heart that can't be seen or heard.

Nurture nourishes, bounces of the fall. Or stands itself up on its feet again.

Opens eye and senses to worlds larger than can be imagined.

A poet in disguise beggens by-passers not to be recognized.

Beggens his muse and gods instead, to let enjoy the walls that appeared as gaps between the paper and its sheets

that spread out no words to no one anymore. Yet stayed plentiful.

While contrasts lost structure and color too, he beggens to stand a distance that he doesn't understand to full extent.

Hence distance's felt, it must be so, is said.

Belief as well once learned, he thinks.

A beggars mask, uniquely shaped, shouts out its thanks silently, yet is heard.

The wall doesn't open new doors, but is door.

Not a pathway to pass or get by.

It's muse in disguise

It's art.