These Catastrophés writ in verse
are also Creation
like the lightning which strikes
from clouds
thunderous
which like the tip of this pen
is charged with energy
like a coiled serpent serpent striking
from the hand which moves it
divine sparks which ignite
the Paper
and then in the Mind of the
Perceiver.
Like cloth'n makeup
and bejewelled charms
for a gilded lining.
Whom are artists but leaping as
through the forrest
of everyday life only to find
it's crystal
or glass
raw materials turned into
the limits of our minds
and time, yet people all but refuse
to pay for it : here's ugly
for a duckling
they don't pay for swans
in the pond.
It's spent on drugs
and gambling instead
for a silver lining.
For it is all decodes and a waste
to chase investments
so they get naught for art instead
devoid of
a history
in the meanngless mills :
It's not aesthetics
but a reminder of the thunder
which stroke and then
but shattered
the creative sparks for
speculaton instead.
Is it lost as for rights,
and rates, returns, rentiers
chasing the strikes.
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