I may be Art
in the way that he was, she was
in the way that you,
most certainly, are –
in its truest form…
in its own brilliance;
a sun that blazes away
the unnecessary haze
of each new day.

I may be Art
spoken aloud in a bustling room
above the clank
of coffee cups
picked up and set back down
on wooden tables -
echoed in each scrape-sound
of every chair as it’s drawn
closer to the stage.

I may be Art
that exists alone, for its own self
having found the virtue
of residing there
on the page, inside a drawer
of the small chest –
within which beats a heart
that grows with every
word laid bare.

I may be Art
not just the end state creation of it
nor the beautifully endless
process of it
but by the natural existence
of a self
now too large to ever
be fully captured;
soaring, brave.

I may be Art
but am not the artist
nor the representation -
that partial truth
that bled out onto the page -
I am rather (perhaps)
an artful essence
only ever partly reigned,
incoherently sane.

I may be Art
created not for itself
but existing regardless
to be seen, understood
by the one consummate reader
that doesn’t need the words -
the one that hears
what’s never fully conveyed
and whispers the same.

Yes -
I may be Art…

but if I am –
I am only…

for you.

Christine Austin Cole

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/art-for-an-audience-of-one/