Art

Is misunderstood;

Beauty, she is not,

But rather

The juxtaposition

Of the immortality of God,

And the inevitable impermanence

Of all that is borne of Him;

The flower fades,

The fruit ferments of the vine,

Humanity flares up like a Firework,

And, falling, sets the forest afire from afar.

The fall is not art,

But rather, the art in the fall

Can be found at the very instant

That the flaring, fading, not-yet-falling firework

Reaches its zenith,

And, cresting upon the shore of its dreams,

Can rise no more.