(can art occur without an artist?)

Maybe the question is wrong.

Maybe art doesn’t begin
 with the artist.
Maybe it begins
 with a condition.
A field.
A stillness.

Something opens
  and something enters.
Not summoned.
Not owned.
Just… appearing.

A melody you hum without knowing why.
A shape your hand draws while thinking of nothing.
A line that arrives mid-walk
 with no sender,
 but undeniable weight.

Did you make it?
Or did you just
 stop being in the way?

Art, sometimes, is what happens
 in the absence
 of authorship.

It doesn’t ask for identity.
It just needs
 an opening.

A body willing
 to vanish
  long enough
  to let it speak.

Every friend when meets,
Seems an angel sent to us,
By the god from his providence,
But when departs after fulfilling,
His ends  selfish  and cunning,
All incidents of past moving.
In sky of our inner gloomy world,
Making us  cry and buzzing sad,
Echo of pain within ending world.

In a way we are such delicate creatures
Our emotions are like threads that can stretch but eventually break if pulled too far
Our hearts while strong can also break apart
They can love deep and hard
But also feel pain and sadness

A life is a precious thing
Everything about it is special
It should be treasured like a valuable jewel
It glimmers and glistens with possibilities and chance
When someone is sleeping they become an innocent soul
Surrendering to their dreams

In a way we are such delicate creatures