You exist to seek its meaning.
Let your mind wander.
If you come to find nothing,
Art will never be at fault.
Answers sit in a pool of creativity
waiting to be seen.
The noise within is a clear marker
of why you are blind to its story.
It was never meant to hold your hand —
only meant to be felt,
permeating vastly enough
for something to take hold always.
To be questioned,
unraveled by those willing to listen.
It owes you nothing.
