What is art
Beauty without the beholder,
Poetry without the peruser?
Paint strokes and vapid sights,
Empty words which fray and fall flat.
Sucked dry of their wonder and grace
Which seep away, searching for a soul to entrance,
A heart to enrapture, a mind to enliven
But only finding an emptiness
To evaporate into.
Which no one looks at,
Trumpeting with the muted voices
Of their creators,
Of whom they now bear
An irretrievable and squandered part.