Lights out in the gallery.
The darkness makes the masterpieces mute.
Now only the thieves creeping outside want to get in.
Across town forgers make forgery their business. Sold to people who want to buy history,
but they can’t see next door is an artist living on paint and coffee, surrounded by canvasses
brilliant with his originality that few care to see.
The most he can hope for is life after death through his paintings while the forgers get rich
and the thieves break in and steal the art away to be locked in vaults never to be seen.
And nobody steals from the poor artist, though his art is richer than the forged Picasso
that goes for millions.
We don’t need magic to exist, we just need to believe it could persist.
We don’t need proof for our faith.
We don’t need religion to help us pray;
we were drawing on cave walls before we knew how to say the Lord’s Prayer.
We don’t need to know why we love,
we just need to love the why.