Living Art

Together we sit in a padded room
Watching the portraits in each other's eyes,
Picasso or Rembrandt, at their finest,
Couldn't depict these mosaics-in-blue;

Then night falls and we become blind
We must rely on our mind-paintings:
We can create a masterpiece, always,
And conjure critics who know their meaning;

We grow tired of our cranial canvas
Decide upon becoming accomplished sculptors:
She chisels on a block of memories
While I dawdle on statues of illusion;

They who think the answers are simple
Never know what to make of us:
They only see twitches and seizures--
We see ourselves as Living Art.

Go on to Who Will What ?

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