What Art Are We?

Inky fingers smudge
her soul across
my empty page,

Does she fill me?

Distorted observations
squabble away transcendental
inference,

Am I ‘world’ to her?

The kind of sketch
Sherlock can deduce
from phantom lines,

What is left to smear?

Scribbles synthesise,
combine spiritual
recognition,

What art is defined by ‘we’?

We come together
As though Picasso
Painted our masterpiece,

Abstract, but complete,
There is only infinite purity.

20140719-185403-68043823.jpg
Poem © Phen Weston 2014

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5 thoughts on “What Art Are We?

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