By James Felix III Word Count: 128
Distinguished in his aims
Flames lingered in his name
Watched self wither cripple then
Just a poet
No fireworks or water with to play
Simple quandaries that affect
Belittle and delay
No definite script speech or lyric left to say
No minute more infinite
Than his day to day.
As hope unravels
Still a cynic in it’s way
Maybe art could be a vessel
Every stroke of the brush and every breath meddle in the exchange.
No saint taken in vain
That art now has reigns
Mirroring society and a certain type of pain
Hand in hand ‘bout a greeting with a shake.
That art is now a canvas above the windowpane
It meticulously hangs
Sometimes I want to sell it
And recreate it all again.
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