museum |Cristiana Deneş|

shared pain is easier to bear

and art’s shoulders are infinite hills

with meadows forever lit

or dark forests haunted by spirit.

some get lost in golden trees

or find the path now through tall grass

and some guide the butterflies;

nonetheless, a frame’s around.

edges sharp or molten sand,

perceiving or walking around,

pointing fingers, arms behind,

it surrounds our weary bodies.

words are small and so is paint,

sounds and all one might create ‒

our deepest love and deeper hate

seep through into our state

of being and we emancipate

them into what we call

a better version of themselves

encompassing clarity of the lack thereof.

open heart is not the same

as open eyes or ears or hand,

it’s no pathway but a wave

that doesn’t guide, nor it obeys.

open dams, the bridge, the gates,

let the havoc wreak what may,

chirping birds or shouts of pain,

who we are is what remains.