Art's solitude is mostly to ourselves
Living in inner contradictions of hope
And despair, a 3 A.M. behind window
Of unnamed dogs yelping at midnight
From bellies of hopelessness, dark trees
A flicker of lights in fog, broken walls
With just impressions, forms receding

In a black of writing when you are you
Of the inside, with tiny worms of words
Crawling in  underbelly, a mere death
With love briefly touched, a body-soul
In fruition, a haze of  dust in its space
Time in vague brush strokes  avoiding
The naming of a place, its atmosphere
Of  ambiguity of naming, an impression,
 How sunrises are created, their brevity.

(Monet's famous painting of sunrise)


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