Life itself is art
Taking form as it unfolds
Through the medium of space and time .
Pity the critic whom dares to analyze
Who fancies himself an expert opinion ?
He whom scrutinizes technique and theme .
Slowly , he shrivels and dies of thirst
Harbored in a vessel of his mind
As a river of appreciation flows freely beneath him .
Have mercy on the artist whom no longer has vision
Who lays his soul upon the altar of creation
Whose passions stir up storms in imagined waters
Pacifically , he bleeds himself to death
Even the stranger crossing familiar seas
As his hemorrhage spills scarlet into the pristine
Sympathize with the fool whose eyes remain asleep
He who knows only function , tasteless and bleak .
Senselessly
He toils alongside the fluid that no longer exists .
Admire the sage who drives without thought
Who abandons the boat
Yet continues to embrace to wash his spirit
He is a connoisseur , a warrior
In search of his next drink
To satisfy his thirst .