Sensuality slithers silently,

Selfishly saunters

so as to suffer

someone's selflessness,

satisfying sin.

Angry at myself

and yet, lashing out.

Antagonism

abused as a shield

to avoid The Light.

Flustered for the fault

in me. fearing faith

may falter., frantic

for forbearance.

Forever defaced.

Currently concerned.

Caring on my part

is the cause of this

collision. Chaos

of the heart - quiet!

The birds wake me in song,

the sky wakes me in light.

The air wakes me with a chill,

my bladder wakes me at night.

Who wakes the birds to sing their song?

Who wakes the sky to light up the world?

Who gives the air the life that it needs?

With nothing to drink, why must I pee?

I'm not looking for an answer,

I simply like the questions.

just how the birds like their song,

and the tune that its left in.

Art -

that which fulfills a purpose

and yet not bound

nor curtailed

nor restrained

by that purpose

- stretches the perceiver,

animates the passive

gaze

(or quiet read)

and stirs

the heart and mind,

evoking that purpose.

Art can be so bold as

to inspire,

discomfort,

reveal,

sadden,

overjoy,

humble,

confuse,

confront,

or defy.

And yet, the artist

cannot contain the art,

control its purpose,

but must concede, rather,

to pursue the purpose,

and let the art bloom

beyond this pursuit.

The purpose is merely a gateway,

a stepping stone,

a foundation,

upon which - through which -

the art is created;

this purpose,

an essence,

a presence,

is a beginning,

not an ending,

not a box,

but a flower pot, with soil that feeds the growth

of those with the patience, the quiet, the focus,

to see what springs from the

art.