Art and Aion
Between rhyme and howl
dangles a fragile world,
a mundane egg of art:
where words dance and display
and are not prose
because prose is not fit
for frame or stage. Rhyme
is a cage, golden and twisted
and beautiful are the birds
that sing on its perch, but it must not ever be forgotten
that birds are beings of wing and air
and quills iridescent.
On the framed stage are birds
which sing from art.
To create a poem one must capture
without taming. One must dance
before the bird escapes
the conjuring hat.
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