Art is dead.
All that’s left is a memory
told out of context
on a dusty shelf.
Like sawdust,
the residue of an event
to be remembered by others.
Art is dead.
A recorded celebration of intuition.
Waiting patiently to be reborn.
A drop fallen from a leaf after a storm.
Absorbed into soil
and drunk by the root.
Art dies the moment it’s born.
Alive like a flame then extinguished
and transformed into smoke.
So when you approach
be aware.
The artist is gone.
You are witnessing a resurrection
of the artist in you.
Are you thirsty enough to drink?