Must Be An Artist

 

The dungeon reeks of that old, wet, mustered smell
You know, the mix of rat and the unclean toilet
in the corner.

As the sun rises a shadow, from the steel bars
securing the holes, in the wall, that we call windows
kisses the cold concrete floor.

There is something beautiful in that.

I don’t know what it is, it seems best described
as the perfect canvas; lightly caressed by pastel
to create, a delicate rose.

In that moment, in the moment of absolute despair,
there is beauty.

I believe,
it is only recognised
by an artist.



-x-




A piece I decided to clean up and bring home.