Pieces and parts litter the floor,
mark the path,
each bit of flotsam a story,
Here and there you can recognize the remains.
Beauty worth recalling,
perhaps even reclaiming.
Or perhaps not.
New things can come from old,
and destruction makes room for new art,
new life, a different kind of damage control,
that saves nothing,
and creates a beauty raw and unexpected,
even to the artist.
About this poem
More a comment on my life than my art. Things fall apart. New things arrive. I suspect I would have fought less to preserve what was, had I known what was to come.