Imagine the amount of art we would have lost without "3am"s and heartbreaks,
Without starless winter nights in lonely little blankets,
Without the love that survives among those who can't be lovers,
Or without the love that perishes for one and grows for the other.

Imagine the amount of art we have already lost on the back of their throats,
Or at the tips of their fingers and the pits of their stomachs,
For there are days when the voices in their head are louder than the strings of their guitar,
And the heaviness that weighs their heart, makes it difficult to even breath, much less make art.

Imagine the amount of art we will lose, in torn letters written to mothers,
Or in dead flowers lying between pages of books, waiting to be forgotten,
The art that will be lost in people we probably won't meet again,
Or the buildings where the memories of them will turn into a ghost, never to be seen again.

Only to be rejoined, rediscovered or reconstructed and remembered by someone, someday, who sees art in broken, and broken in people;
And the day they do, art will be found again,
Art will breath again to recite the tales of the people who were art themselves.

© pandawithglasses

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