Poetry

Art is like cancer
You never know when its going to crop up
Or where.

Unlike cancer it never spreads
But having surfaced dives underground again.

Art is a nocturnal animal
Shy and timid
Knows it's eyes cannot take the harsh glare of day
Knows it can be easily led astray.

It aches to find a place to call its own
Where it shall safely reside

Others may come to it
To find it there
Knowing that that was where they were going

To find they were nowhere at all
But some trumped up aberration
Of a place.

"Here lies art,
May it rest in peace.
We murdered it in anticipation

"Art is a boil
That irritates the skin.

The host
Shuns it. In embracing
Smothers it.