Whoever

Whoever said that art does not make sense has never made art for themself.
Art does make sense.
It makes sense of the riddle.
The anguish.
The pain and
yellow stained light inside the heart.
The long roads wet with waiting endlessly and wanting.
The ink spilled on the night of our souls.
Art spoils the reality we see blindly
and makes what is essential, truthfully what cannot be seen,
visible. 
Art does make sense.
It creates the only sense my soul can connect to, the only sense it knows
like an old friend I sit and sip warm tea with. 
Art disturbs me because
it is the only thing that seems to distort, to pull and tug at every possibility and plane without ceasing.
But really, art reveals every last thing about yourself, all the beauty
and the quiet music humming within you constantly.
Even the ugly bits it pulls from you.
Art, true art, reveals it all. It has the divine right to make sense within us--divine, godly, powerful sense
inside us all.
That is what real art does. It beckons us home within ourselves, sometimes,
only with the truly
special art,
without us even knowing it.
-k.p.b.
Oct. 3. 2016. 8.49pm.