SikhJedi

Beaches calling out to waves,
I wish my mind would learn to behave.
Without you, love is all I crave,
a hermit hiding in his cave.
A beggar finds his fortune at the grave,
still surfing on karma's endless wave.
Only a strong will stands to save
so live this life like a midnight rave.

A drunk at the bar,
packs of stray dogs,
scrapyards of cars,
a tree sawn into logs

classical music
drowned out by builders' drills.

Time does what rust does:
flakes us at the edges,
threads us thin.

People call it fate,
but it feels more like questions
printed on cheap paper.

We sit in the long bright hall
of our days,
no one explaining the exam,

only this:

you write what you can
with the life you've been given,
and hand it in.

Conscience walks into a museum
artwork, sculptures all around.
Artists exhibit for strangers,
some pieces profound.

One, in particular,
made of broken parts:
trying to play a game of chess
with no one to defeat.

Another: a shape of no consequence,
colours no longer able to tense
just pigment, just posture,
a silence in paint.

Conscience drifts on
to something magical:
no form, no frame,
only a warm scent
a breeze that strokes the face.

A joy so pure
I want to tape it down,
keep it forever.

Then my eyes open on an oil painting:
an outside world I can finally see.
Dead artists--frames of history,
a moment held inside the gaze,
never to be unmade.

No difference, really,
between art outside
and art in the mind.

Look hard--
beauty is there,
if you're willing to find.