Art room
we’re all just mad; inadvertent
the speakers’ blast
harmonious melancholy;
what’s future, present, past
gets tangled up all in the strings.
like finely selected hair; dab, dab, dab;
as we jab, jab
our way through gelatin glass
like raindrops in near-stop motion
all round us
a little bit mad.
- a poem dedicated to the only subject i enjoy.
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