Where does art go?
It goes everywhere!
On the wall,
by the door,
near the stairs,
in the heart
and mind’s eye.
It goes everywhere art can fit,
in alignment with unspoken dimensions.
That’s potential, funky,
just funky enough to break up the monotony.
Something nice could go right here,
something to make you stare,
something silvery, shimmering.
They’ll be down, all horizontal,
clearing the banisters by four inches.
It’s all so colorful, it could go anywhere.
Everything is in a pink bag.
There are many reasons to love her beauty:
The way the sun gleams off the seas of
her cerulean eyes. They guide me to her
like a lighthouse for the old sea captain.
Her chestnut hair falls to her shoulders with
the exception of the strands tucked
behind her ear like curtains being drawn
to unveil the perfectly composed orchestra
that is her face.
She shoots a smile like a gun slinger and
her lips are the smoking barrel. The high noon
sun is the spotlight upon her nearly flawless
face. Flawless except for the one imperfection,
the freckle perched just above her lips. It sits
alone, an outcast of her face telling stories of
secrets her lips dare not speak of. So little,
so inviting; to sit beside and hear the stories
of what truly makes her perfect and how
she was marked with this entrancing beauty.