I may be Art br in the way that he was, she was br in the way that you, br most certainly, are – br in its truest form… br in its own brilliance; br a sun that blazes away br the unnecessary haze br of each new day. br br I may be Art br spoken aloud in a bustling room br above the clank br of coffee cups br picked up and set back down br on wooden tables - br echoed in each scrape-sound br of every chair as it’s drawn br closer to the stage. br br I may be Art br that exists alone, for its own self br having found the virtue br of residing there br on the page, inside a drawer br of the small chest – br within which beats a heart br that grows with every br word laid bare. br br I may be Art br not just the end state creation of it br nor the beautifully endless br process of it br but by the natural existence br of a self br now too large to ever br be fully captured; br soaring, brave. br br I may be Art br but am not the artist br nor the representation - br that partial truth br that bled out onto the page - br I am rather (perhaps) br an artful essence br only ever partly reigned, br incoherently sane. br br I may be Art br created not for itself br but existing regardless br to be seen, understood br by the one consummate reader br that doesn’t need the words - br the one that hears br what’s never fully conveyed br and whispers the same. br br Yes - br I may be Art… br br but if I am – br I am only… br br for you.