the air is crisp

the leaves are full of flame

falling from the fake tree

like freedom

blown away.


come to me


and far between.

It’s not that people are bad

I just see their spots,

their imperfections

their fire, their color, their transparency, their lack of light


in the twilight

and I’m not looking for a perfect leaf.

They are raked into piles

and burned

Their incense smells bad

It’s different

than when I

burn a leaf

with a magnifying glass.

I see myself, in the smoke

my imperfections


I’m surprised,

when the leaves I admire

keep me around

pressed between the pages of a heavy book.

Any subject that can be nailed down

any person that screams

any beauty to be found

under the deep blue sky

belongs to me.

It’s a painting

I walk into,

with music, like the wind

that calls to friends

who don’t know my name.

They whisper, all kinds of things

behind my back

and we don’t fall together.

I drown in a pond, by another leaf

matching my five points

and our colors are worth more


I test the leaves

they blow away from me

I’m not trying to be attractive

but I long for that surprise

that lands on me

that follows me home.

It’s a lot like life

You know it, and it’s gone.

We don’t make love, to understand it


art is beautiful,

because we don’t know why.


2 thoughts on “Art is beautiful because we don’t know why.

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