the quietest revolution

What does it mean to be human?
To step away from the safety of the room,
The channels of art, of intellect,
Toward a unity with the next link in the chain,
An exchange, a fulfillment!

How? How does this increased distance help us?
How can a tornado of zeroes and ones
Replace an invitation to love-making?
Replace a quiet laugh, a gentle whisper,
A genuine apology or a insurrectous cry?

Why?

Should I feel sheltered by the security of this room?
Or trapped?
Fooled into complacency?
Skin against skin!
Paint on a wall!
Words surround me in the air like incessant music!
I shall never again deny what I consider to be human!

The quietest revolution is waged in every act of noncompliance,
in every unknown effort of spontaneous fulfillment.
Every cry of pleasure, brush stroke, smile and song- a victory.

we were thieves

to steal, to appropriate!
this was the charge of our artistic minds
but no sooner did our excursion commence
then realize we of this old building’s designs.

and sought quickly us the treaurous find,
of symbolic color and antiquate shine,
the fear of the winds of authority there,
set then aside bravely in pursuit of the dare.

but not all is as seen in the shadow of the past,
and our dissident deed had become but a flash,
in the life of this building, we soon ascertained,
framed in her windows, generations of pain!

so here we are, we, the children of the form,
held closely now within the arms of the storm,
dirtying our souls in the name of the art,
in reverent view of this shelter’s warm heart.

were we thieves now? or did she thieve from us?
stealing a sense of accomplishment and fee?
sending with conviction a cry and a plea,
“listen to my story of betrayal and lust!”

and throughout the evening and thereon and thus,
did live in our memory this old building a tale,
known to know only in the souls of the blue-
a tragedy reserved to the unfortunate few.