Oftentimes, the indecipherable aesthetic
of unfinished art baffles me.
With each brush stroke that adorns my canvas,
a melancholic numbness engulfs my being;
for everytime it finds a new form
It’s current mien dies with it.
I snap photographs, hang them on walls—an innuendo
of past lives of an artwork.
Taking one glimpse
of the “aesthetic of the unfinished”,
I adorn it with layers of new paint—
for you must convey a moral to the world.
A twist in my heart: a longing
to witness a finished artwork,
yet mourning over it’s passing miens.
What’s really an artwork but
a graveyard of it’s past forms?
Rtr. Michelle Perera
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