On the wage of Art and Price of Youth

Screen Shot 09-05-15 at 10.08 AM

There is a romantic mark
In our hearts of sinking days
That sad similitude of being awake
While we dwindle our life’s wage away

Exhausted by nature, loved by none
We must dream up magic
From suffering’s destiny
And find fond bliss in monotony

And balmy incense to reveal
The melodies beneath the toil
And the smiles that do not turn away in vain
I to these restless symbols purge

The love that got away of destiny
Where free-will was a measure
Of our intelligence and motivation
That were the hours of our youth

Whose vulgarity of error was nothing more
Than the brief centre of an aching heart
There is a romantic streak
That burns our nights to the ground

Some call it art, others sacrifice
I must press on in solemn epiphanies
That break the butterfly wings of time
For all the ache is nothing more
Than mere beauty in experiment.

2 thoughts on “On the wage of Art and Price of Youth

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