Florence asks: how much is art really worth?
And I ask it too,
at night stretching into dusk,
the awakening journeys of darkness into new light.
A piercing sunrise on the horizon,
red hot with a flicking light,
poised with promise of transformation.
How do we know when we have found art?
When can we touch it?
This allusive yet tangible thing,
a creation from within
but yet so obviously a reflection of what’s around.
I seek validation is all its forms:
views on a html page,
money,
turning crisp paper from one page to the next,
events,
footsteps on wooden floors
and bums on wooden seats.
I think of what’s left to create,
this maddening void,
these expansive universes,
these creations upon creations,
speculative wonderlands
turned dreams-like fragments.
But they are real;
these expressions,
these joined words.
They beat with me,
to a sound,
only some can hear.
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