Paradoxical
The parquet flooring
Gilded frames hold in loving arms
The works, art, of fame
Yet art is love, is life.
The frames so ornate
Bind the life-blood.
The art was created to be observed, yes,
But to box in the movement,
The crest of acrylic waves,
The smoothly worked stone
From which emerges new life-
Is ludicrous.
And the process...
Surrounded by their brethren,
A sea of life, just so.
Contained in this ugly block building.
Stunted in worked frames,
But at the same time,
Expanding out beyond the walls.
Collected in ways,
Connected in plays of thought.
How ironic the pulses of life,
Through their own need of preservation,
Have wrought lavish coffins for themselves
So they may exist in gilded, wooden cages
For tomorrow's eyes
Like a magnificent bird
Under the taxidermist's careful hand.
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