just dots...

its a series of jots and dots
it can be as well be a blotch
or a fairy in a snow clad peak
it can be the prairies
or the rainbows, the green leaves

its after all just few dots
crammed in clusters
clumsily, filling space ...
we call it a painting
the high sounding art

the blue sea and the orange sky
the feel of wind brushing against the skin
or the scent of love
it can project all

the art, the sculpture, the painting
stand there and relish
the constituents of all
the atoms, the pixels, the dots