Art for One’s Sake

As the ink is spent out

The scribbling goes on

Describing the sentiments observed,

the misers and the victors

Painting vivacity and boldness

Or simply saying the life there is


The grasp of the hand tightens

Against its arm that strikes

It neither knows when to stop

nor to pause

When it has been struck by that Eureka


The hand also thrives

In finding its other possession

The palette, the brush, the pigments

They bring the artworks to life

Or better still,

The life is carried to art


The strokes that are painted

Sometimes thin, thinner, thick, thicker

Appear in all sorts of attitudes

One alights upon the drama and

the dynamics

That the lines, shapes and colours depict


When life turns out sour

Or bitter gall that comes around

The beauty gets distorted and blurred

The joy once found comes out

upside down


The travails of life could trammel

The time of coming unknown to anyone

The pen once held

The palette protracted

Their purpose becomes authentic

They know how to liberate

And save the person at hand


The ink and the easel

Art for art’s sake

They peg not only there

Without a pen

What person could there be?

Without a palette

What life could there be?

Art for art’s sake

Better still, art for one’s sake.



Written on 11 February 2015 in Rome

Photo by Daian Gan from Pexels

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