Through The Halls

Red breads and blue stews,
green screams and yellow fellows,
the accumulated masterpieces no more than chintzy rhymes,
light shining through the distance between you and I;
You’ve got headphones in – listening to descriptions,
titles, places, things to forget now and later,
and I just wonder if –
if –
madness is the end of art or
if art is where the madness starts.

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