BeautyA Poem by The ProletarianLife begins. The tears are mine and the relief is theirs At the end the tables turn. This I was satisfied believing. That nature is not rational; that it does not conspire or shape by reason any object to be good, or worth remembering. So why am I so scared? If incident alone brings me in and takes me out, why does my mind now grip my life's discordant shapes and demand for it a meaning to match this great sensation? Does this art demand an artist? Or are the pieces of a puzzle just fallen leaves, and desperately arranged called beauty still?
© 2023 The Proletarian |
Stats
92 Views
Added on June 21, 2023 Last Updated on June 21, 2023 Author
|