Art?

It's a chipped frame - pane
tacky upon touch - finely flaking
depictions of unknowns
authorship of mute convictions...
coaxings from the heart of Nox
alleys - murals mildew
galleries where no one walks

It's umber pigments
pooled in Scarborough rows
of gold on mango
dandelion medallions
diffusing hues
for use by fertile hands

It's lungs of bellows
catching tradewinds
mixing molten silks - all those glosses...
unstirred by dross
bending blended motes
They sway
devotedly
dancing glasses
amassing...emoting...

It's scritching
graphite whispers
on chaste pasty maiden pages
in bashful nights
compositions with covers spread - awaiting
progressions into those
sweet
tight
bindings
down slits...tight little seams
ink gestating into dreams

The lust of soul
to become seen