On Art

Art is a kind of innocence,
An experience without desire, for the elegance
of compostion; enigmatic enjoyment; precious
hidden and not hunted woodlands . . .

Over there. Logic. All around.
Purposeful fulfillment in its absurdity, tall,
ancient, a diamond of needles, a quiet
herder of undergrowth–vines . . .

Words manipulate, provoke, control, elaborate
on futiliy, insanity, rage; even silence;
I hear now, in the distance . . .

Let the birdsong spiral out of control,
reverberate across the ends, the means,
the terrors and last lamented gates we all
must someday pass through . . .
For the soul, expression.
To no end but
expression.

Copyright 2012 by Michael Marsters.
All rights reserved.

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10 thoughts on “On Art

  1. Wonderful outline of how very necessary all forms of art are to the human soul! Art is very much “a quiet herder of undergrowth vines” in our human psyches!

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