I cradle my desire to be loved into history, accepted into art, wanted in your heart.
When is it my turn to be the words,
the paint, the music, the clay?

Oh, but am I fit to be that beautiful?
Looked as something worth
written or painted,
composed or encraved.

The arches of the Romans,
the poetry of the medieval,
the art of the ancient,
the architexture of gothic
cannot be re-illustraded.

Nowadays, what is beautiful?
The lamppost doesn't have a story,
the churches have gone silent.
Is sorrow all that embarks my poetry?
Has society grew hateful and violent
towards complexity and beauty?

When nothing in this day is beautiful
- not the church, not the bridge,
not the lamppost -

how could I?

It's superficial, it's dolorous.
Maybe God gave up on us.

Maybe a flood could wash away
the putrid people,
who take what they want with their hands, that search and deprive,
beat and slay.
Eyes that wander,
strip you with gaze,
make you feel exposed
and are full with hate.

Oh, what must it be to be loved by an artist.
One who finds the roseglass and curves more than glorious.
One who finds the swirls on old wooden chairs as intriguing as moss is to biologist.
Or one who can find the
magnificence and glory,
peculiarity and beauty
in mundane - like a wooden chair.

© mogsart