Wherefore Art Thou Now?

The gazette said I’d find you here,
curled up under the bridge of concrete
that kept you here.  Poets abandoned
the crates of time and filled minstrel
halls with their ugly voices unable to
mimic even a Meijer brand chime.
How sad that painters all paint on
Bamboo and all sculptures wear
masks of triangles.  Where our art
on another’s found, as trappings of
bits or bytes compress our favorite
sounds.  Before, so in template
imbued, that wicker baskets could
be molded from poetry’s muse,
painting a profound picture, sculpture
the likeness of man, the flesh to
the world of unerring stone turned.
Indelible still sits that soft mask of element
unbreached, unascended by man’s
pitter patter and ephemeral reach.


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