The Underappreciated Art
All is sweet as death,
with life falling behind, turning sour,
as the trees sink below the horizon
and time moves on.
For I will not stand and
take it in.
It is too painful.
Is it weak, disconnected?
Of me to shrink back
and shrivel
and hope for things
that do not, will not,
will never come?
Think.
I don’t.
With death such an art
as She spoke of.
If only I was such
great an artist
as She.