The morning zephyr
fingered its rough exterior
found a mouth
breathed into
its empty insides
a song of
unremembered memories
for once it danced of life
hanging on a thread
of brittle now
a brief life
to the husk
of its former self
a shadow owns it
beneath the window sill
the cobweb flutters
empty fingers in the wind
free of its hollow weight
which even in death
moves lifeless
on six tiny feet
here I sit
by the window sill
feeding
on my dead selves
aware of the fullness
of being empty
No great artist ever sees things as they really are. If he did, he would cease to be an artist.
- Oscar Wilde
The poems and the art work are beautiful.