If I subordinate beauty to brute force and logic,
Then I’m nothing but a pride-filled fool.
Art embodies a being only birthed in servitude;
Such a spirit cannot be beaten into submission.
If I subordinate beauty to brute force and logic,
Then I’m nothing but a pride-filled fool.
Art embodies a being only birthed in servitude;
Such a spirit cannot be beaten into submission.
I think that the trees are happy in autumn. Their heavy cloaks are cast off, and their lanky, springy arms stretch a little higher than before. Their simple forms are on delightful view – branches pierce the cold air, and brown bark starkly contrasts with the frosted sky of the season. Moreover, they have sweet rest; rest from the hasty making and consuming of food, and instead live contentedly on wealth already stored up. They will soon exist in numb half-consciousness that renders the weighty, cold snow not a burden, but a divine embrace; a heavenly, chilling covering in exchange for a green, earthly one.
Behind glass – diamonds, rubies and aquamarine
Blare against black velvet and fall away from me.
Suspended in the atmosphere, I am only seen
As a fading, blinking light amongst a host of stars.
You must be logged in to post a comment.