In a rush of inadequate feelings and words, A flood of sour lemon and cold, Lies a tangle of tormented, good-natured doubt: Presented, marked down, and then sold. No big-hearted, sweet, good-intentioned attempts Make up for inadequate pauses. No desire to bear the burdens of friends Can ease pain, set
Heretofore the world has understood All beauty to be purely seen, described. No word can give a subject flesh and blood; No written sound vivificate, ignite. Ascribe to art the power to convey His work into our hands: we redesign. Kiss the world with fingertips in gray And capture colors
And what is art? I ask, for none can say If taste and decadence are just the same For what is baked as much as painted; nay, The culinary art is not mis-named. Thus mastery is relative by art As sweetness becomes relative by form. For who can pick ingredients
Perfected the art of deceiving myself And learned the pure form of acting a fool, I breathe in and out the filthiest air While I blithely and blindly ignore the first rule. Ah, but perfection cannot be attained. Ah, how it jeers from the sidelines, un-reached. Its mysterious ways entice
I looked at you the day you were born And I saw it was good. Beloved, your King So loves your blue eyes and your sad but sweet smile And holds that small hand whatever life brings. I look at you now and I love who you are. You cry