Brooke Forbes

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 expression, these joined words.

They beat with me, 

to a sound,

only some can hear.