The Artist


I don't speak of art, he said.
I speak of lines and
unchoreographed angles
put together by artists too
overwhelmed by their emotions
and the spirits in their systems to
produce something concrete--
the portraits of prosperous
subjects with silver spoons
dangling from their plump
mouths drawn by penniless
men with inevitable envy in
their eyes and gracefulness in
their pencils--
the scattered dots made
to look like stars by those
who have laid on the ground
one too many a night staring at
the sky above them.
I do not speak of art! he said,
I speak of reality.

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