to be held in wilting skin

the greatest art is lived, not made

my masterpiece is broken glass

a tragedy in the kitchen

a performance, no audience

run down the stairs, run out of time

miss the last train to a heartbeat

and roam a sunset flooded street

drowning in red and tangerine

trace the outline of a promise

writing pages without a pen

painting meters without my hand

finding intrigue in the mundane

and to be held in wilting skin

to be consumed by the process

to do something, to do nothing

is artistry, it’s all the same