What Art Are We?

Inky fingers smudge
her soul across
my empty page,

Does she fill me?

Distorted observations
squabble away transcendental

Am I ‘world’ to her?

The kind of sketch
Sherlock can deduce
from phantom lines,

What is left to smear?

Scribbles synthesise,
combine spiritual

What art is defined by ‘we’?

We come together
As though Picasso
Painted our masterpiece,

Abstract, but complete,
There is only infinite purity.

Poem © Phen Weston 2014


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