What is beauty but temporary lights
flashed from unknowable fonts of purpose
on the formlessness of space from great heights
or the old forms of Death’s ruined corpus?
A disservice to mention unity
of forms and matters pertaining to taste
unless you grant Europe impunity
for aesthetics of hate and views erased:
Somehow I survived with tainted vision
and features so dark I was blurred at night
drunk from the sweat of my own division
into paintbrush and palette, out of sight:
No wonder I’ve wandered in search of beauty
to no avail: it does not include me.