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.