THis is art ; descriptions unfinished

THis is art ;

descriptions unfinished,

decryptions not given

i feel the salted sand,

slip beneath my fingers. gently,

i sift, and i shake. time between my hands

my writing is flawed like my character. descriptions unfinished

like this moment, now passing ;

finished and unnoticed.

i cannot write them all down

up in the right side of town

the city lights are blinding

in the dark,

illuminated buildings strike a sudden spark,

that fills my senses

but if i could see,

everything there is to see,

would i become blind to animosity?

or,

would i be left

senseless?

pause.

breathe

plot holes, potholes.

a hole is more like an unwashed window

than an upside-down dome.

it creates a longing to be more ;

wholesome

regrets and misfortunes

are evidences

of my unfathomable freedoms

to learn. and keep learning ;

keep earning.

science wants to know it all.

people want to go it all. live forever.

but some die young

and i’ve been dying since the day i was born

but also growing like a tree.

alone. and in silence.

connected to my community,

my roots. they run with loyal leaves

i am ;

a van gogh ; Frida Kahlo ;

picasso

I did not make the canvas ;

but what would happen?

if i keep this sand between my wholesome hands,

for one canorous moment ;

would i make a canvas?