It's not about
the love of art
anymore.
That's an imaginary
particle in a jar.
Too far away.
A friend hands
me a card across
the table
that tells my future:
just a handful of sand.
It's not about
the money;
loved,
respected,
revered.
Let's all pray
in front of
an empty grave.
A sacrament.
Treasure trove.
It's not about living.
The darkness
has taken
what wasn't already
smoke.
No value.
No name.
