3/4/19 (Paradise Decluttered)

From daubed paintings on cave walls, to the fruit
In still lives doused in sunlight, one can taste
The longing for a loved one, or the woe
Creation spat on by its fellow man.
Enter now a gallery. Take a seat.
See blank canvas with red lines at the top.
Did I miss the plain-beige beauty of a seed
That fell from the most coloured tree on Earth?
See the houses built upon the hill
Where cottages through tangled woodland flowed
Knitted thatching has been taken thence
Expanses of white wall now fill its song.
Above them, streamlined aeroplanes still soar
Watching the world continually pursue
An ever deconstructed type of rime
Three lines without a capital preferred
To neatened rhymes with simple meter pure.
I’m not the last nor cannot be the first
To tentatively note with heart outspread
A complete deconstruction’s an abyss.
But I shall leave my feelings in the dark
Uncertain as I am of their support
In Art’s continual ceaseless argument.
Yet even without assured providence.
I’ll justify my cluttering to men.