“But when he loves me I feel like I’m floating

When he calls me pretty I feel like somebody
Even when we fade eventually to nothing
You will always be my favortie form of loving”
People crumble, fall, break apart, bow down and pray for god
Or the idea of a superior being
And my superior being is art
That manipulative lover
Shape shifting to every mood so you could never escape it

There’s something to be taken away from the way people shrink into the musical instrument they’re playing

The way an artist is engulfed in their paint and brushes you’d need a telescope to find him
But look at his final piece and there he is; Deconstructed, dissected

The way light breaks into a million pieces diffused through the glass

Artists are broken into their plenty forms in the hands of art

“But when you love me I feel like I’m floating
The way you find me pretty I feel like somebody
Even when I fade eventually to nothing
You will always be my favorite form of loving… or being”

If heartbreaks and trauma produce the ugliest offspring
Art is the ugly duckling you can accept
The one you want to forgive

And if they leave a trail of blood, art always leaves you weaping with a trail of paint or dust

I do not exactly deny the might of god
Some say;
“Life imitates art”
In that all beings are messengers relaying or unfolding something from god to earthlings

In that; one might get lost for all eternity only to find themselves in a line amidst a clumsy fall into a book of short stories

And as I at times finally surrender to god’s brute transparent hands
I surrendered and will always surrender to a line or two

Like cheap sweet pick-me-ups when existing feels far away from beautiful