Even as the flow
of words
or oil
on a canvas
or notebook.
As seldomly inspired,
as deceptive,
as underappreciated.
The music between floor boards
and what my closets
bury
is buried in the pages
of your poem
and the shading
of your textured forest.
The perfect pitch.
Temples beating,
foreheads glistening.
I block light
as you block time,
or would.
And in the aisle of my project,
my legacy,
I, too, close my eyes
and ponder what devastation my hands
will bring into the world
of artists and psychopaths.
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