The Artist Against the Observer

I see elegant swipes,

dances in moonlight

across empty landscapes

filled with only tangled bodies

enjoying a private canvas

of intertwined starlight:

A mirror of imagery I pull from the romantics.


You see the blankness

without its name.

You’re drawing conclusions

while I’m scratching in annotations.

You enjoy a private canvas

as the sum of its parts:

The product of the romantics detached from our age.

( ❤ Mitch)

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