To the art that no longer could be seen
Shadowed away like a hermit,
left in cold air
Asking..
“Where was the light I once received?”

To the pieces that came from precise
brush strokes
and left unfinished
As the artist turned an eye to another work on their easel

To the art that tells itself
that the worth you once held
has withered away as the gold shines no more.

Whatever abandonment,
Whatever shadows hides you,
Whatever flaw, mark, or unfinished points haunts you

All doesn’t degrade you
from the true nature
That is hidden in yourself
you are what is meant to be

Art.