People walking

A blur of colours jump out at you,

Mangled arms, sunshine, and the sweet dewdrops on the bark of an old elm tree,

bark withered and tired.

Charcoal, ashen like the burning genocide of a distant war.

I smile, glance carefully at the pieces and examine them with my eyes, ears

Until I can hear and see everything the paintings whisper to me,

A kiss on the edge of the delicate canvas of creativity.

Paintings talking,

What we may not see is clear

For art is everywhere

Anywhere you can see or hear.

There's art in cobwebby corners,

their remains unfinished and untouched

It's like the whisper of a symphony,

A distant soliloquay, and the silence speaks wonders.

They are ideas, innovations,

the future which lies in our hands.

It's the delicate balance of life,

of happy memories and torn, forgotten pains

of the past and perhaps the future.

Wild patterns,

they mean something.

Something untangible, something we can't see.

I smell the tears and the blood

and the ashen hands and the cracked fingertips,

rubbing furiously on the paper so it will be finished.

A deadline.

Ideas. Ideas don't need to be finished in a limited amount of time.

Art.

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