For beauty The world pays a price: It is squalor, Loneliness, commonality, Every low And wicked thing. The flowers Blooming beside the road Grow amidst Careless cast-offs Of the unconcerned. When my pen Praises the noblest and The best, do I Likewise celebrate Its ugly, tawdry twin? Perhaps, for my own soul Has a shabbiness Interwoven 'mongst Its angelic threads. We live In an imperfect world, A puzzle whose million pieces May form a million million pictures, Lasting only moments. Can there be A perfect world? What the heart hopes, The eyes Will never see.
|Previous Poem||Return to poem list.||Next Poem|