Poetry may make us from time to time a little more aware of the deeper, unnamed feelings which form the substratum of our being, to which we rarely penetrate; for our lives are mostly a constant evasion of ourselves.
T. S. Eliot
Sunday, May 16, 2010
No One Stays
My biggest fear is to become art. I hang on a blank museum wall. I hang there for all to see. I hang as dead as a leaf. My colors shining through the blankness of the halls, admired by them all. Praised by men of taste. Misunderstood by most. An expression of my souls creation. But they all pass. They praise. They take notes. They leave on their way. No one stays.