Art is a kind of innocence,
An experience without desire, for the elegance
of compostion; enigmatic enjoyment; precious
hidden and not hunted woodlands . . .
Over there. Logic. All around.
Purposeful fulfillment in its absurdity, tall,
ancient, a diamond of needles, a quiet
herder of undergrowth–vines . . .
Words manipulate, provoke, control, elaborate
on futiliy, insanity, rage; even silence;
I hear now, in the distance . . .
Let the birdsong spiral out of control,
reverberate across the ends, the means,
the terrors and last lamented gates we all
must someday pass through . . .
For the soul, expression.
To no end but
Copyright 2012 by Michael Marsters.
All rights reserved.