Whispers of art speed me through the corridors
Where ghosts recount ethereal truths and fascinations.
Behind so many open doors
The work of untold imaginations.
Library, gallery, curtain
The Ship of Theseus
Poe, Wilde, Fitzgerald, Bergman
Art can be quite specious.
Down through hours, minutes, seconds
The silent minnow, silvery, baited
Meets eyes of irrelevance
Though the hook on which it’s fated
To hang fails as an instrument of capture.
To grow old
With every rapture
What painting is so bold?
The masque a game of chess
Played in reverse,
A ship where every plank
Is a curse.
A world beyond that beckons.
My blunted senses fail to taste.
The intellect that reckons
Keeps my body chaste.