If art is immortal,
Then what of the artist?
The muse?
The patron?
If brushstrokes and pen scribbles
Can live on forever
What is to stop our souls from latching onto life
And staying on earth,
As hell for the devil,
And heaven for the angels.
We are the demons and seraphim of earth.
Nearly mortal,
Not quite immortal.
Lest we count the stories,
Spoke by mouth,
Stolen through smiles.
Our stories carry our immortality,
Until we live on forever,
In paint splatters and poems.
If we are not immortal,
Set to die on this earth,
Then we must make our art immortal
So that we may live in a constant rebirth
YOU ARE READING
Gentle Reminders of You
Poetryoh, reader, my reader, please don't hate what you are about to read they come from a part of me deep inside buried beneath blood and flesh warped in anger and weeping challenged in love changed in trust bound by hope and they are yours
