Life as art

 My prediction is we will all stop wanting

To be artists, because unless you are a millionaire

There

Really is no point in even pretending

You stand a chance

Against the closeness of killing time

That comes after you like baying dogs

And the train tracks of certain logic

Lead you on

And on in inevitable perfection

If you could only stay on the tracks

But there is some self destruction that leads you off

Whether the road is cracked

Or that you have hit the road

With your hammar of art

To break up perfection

Into shattered pieces of life

You try to put back together

In your own collage of life

Then walk over these "Tombstones of damage"

That lead you onto the next precipice

And they say life is art

And Art is Life

And "the moving hand writes"

But we know not what it writes

And who holds the brush

And who paints the light

Or tells the birds to sing

Or ever wondered about anything