Wednesday, January 7, 2015
My hand was supported by the mantelpiece,
And I was liked to smile upon the solid picture,
That faced me with men and good picture,
Drawings of finite time, infinite space, and cosmic
Energy surpassing us with its glare.
I was a poor-spirited slave continuing to move
Into the horizon of hope and blame,
This world was a finished product,
A world of regard, going to the speaking area
With my mood of continuance and perseverance.
My arms were mixed with the elbows of a look in tone,
I strung my walk along the edge of a room so lavish
And luxurious that sayings bewildered the crowd of tubes
And rods and blobs that stung as the sun.
I can be pretty in thought as a man is with a picture,
Wondering how the picture bedazzles, as you
Lower the gaze and interrupt the beautiful globe.
Topic(s) of this poem: art