Dictating Mid-Night

I wake up the night
to write
a manifesto.

I wonder
if they wonder
Why?

I ask if art is dead?
Is the world dying?
What are we waiting for?

The weather slams its fist against the glass.
The light traces shadows,
writing letters.
Questions mark the time.

A part of me that seems to know
it all.
An indescribable spirit of vastness beyond control
transports me through this house of mirrors
each reflecting seconds
years.

I see artists making mirrors of mirrors.
Are we looking?
Do we see?
Or do we lie,
amazed,
amid a thousand images of self?
Do the reproductions sell us to sleep
and dream of deep eternity?

The weather slams its fist against the glass.
The light traces shadows,
writing letters.
Questions mark.
Time remains.

How come?
Where from?
Tomorrow?

I grope and reach for the light.
Another night.