Page 38

Gallery Hop

I am a painting that's been hung on the wall
a moment too soon.
My colors have blended in too many places,
there are smudges in the corners
where intricate details once reigned.
I glare in all the wrong ways
against the beams of light that flicker
in every direction but my own.

I can't understand how you even see me;
the room is too big,
the walls too tall,
the lighting too dark.
You have to squint, just to catch a glimpse
of what I'm projecting for all to read.

I once was told that real art was effortless,
a second in time was a lifetime in comprehension.
And you could feel all that needed to be felt
by reaching out your hand,
no need to touch.

It was the effort, you see.
Feeling is all about the idea
of learning what it means to feel.
Not just the verb, itself.