a poem by Jeremy C Kester
I run my fingers over the smooth braille
Not knowing what sense it means
To be in a museum of art
Where the blind are neutered
From this aesthetic beauty.
But worn just slightly I move
From gallery to gallery
From display to display
Sometimes quick, but always so laggard.
There is such beauty here
Even within the shit
That we call art
Crayon scribbled over canvas
Two left feet and a sink
Such idle attempts at creativity.
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Poem written by Jeremy C Kester
©2021 Jeremy C Kester – All Rights Reserved