Poetry

If I break my
Thought into tinted
Drops of lines
And speak of leaves
Brittle and aged
That long ago fell
From the mouth of
A thoughtless soul
Reprieving it of life
With one last breath;

If that breath were
Captured or
Encapsulated in silence,


Separated,

By monotone colors,
By forms and shapes,
By empty structures,
By pride and vanity;


If that breath
Was made to breathe again,
Given form,
Given breadth,
Would it be art?

Or merely an attempt to
Label meaningless fragmentation
As knowledgeable beauty