Poem written by Franklin Rayeski – Please do not use without crediting me

It finds its way into your life like a snake,
Slithering silently and wrapping itself around you,
Consuming you like a merciless ocean.
But there is no pain, only joy.

It sits still in the dim caverns under bridges,
Painted in vibrant colors and expressions,
Clashing against the pallid brick walls.
A portrait of anger, angst and sadness.

It waits in the glistening brown hollow woods;
Trees twisting and dancing with their limbs outstretched,
And the sun peaking through their green leaves.
They’re waiting to be captured.

It screams from blown out speakers from that garage,
Or from the speakers in the headphones of a stranger,
Or from the speakers on a glistening stage.
It’s symphonies to soliloquies in amplitudes and waves.

It’s the stitched cloth on the backs of bone white mannequins,
And the glassy tiles on the ceilings of arabesque mosques.
It’s the delightful texture of rich gourmet rolls and meat.
The catalyst that evokes emotion from the soul.

It is an empty space, a blank canvas, waiting to be filled,
Clay waiting to be molded, songs to be sung,
Stories to be written, dances to be preformed.
That empty space, it waits in anticipation.

It lies in front of our eyes and ears and in our mouths against our tongues.
It entwines around us, in us, in front of us,
For us to capture it, or describe it, or recreate it.
It belongs there, with emotion and openness.

It belongs here, in that space; Art.
In everywhere we dare to look.
Inside the imagination in our head,
And in the ventricles of our heart.


One thought on ““Art”

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