It’s pretty, but is it art?

To think it's labour,

To think it's pleasure,

To think with favour,

To think with leisure.

The pen bled, the mind waxed weary,

The bed is stained with acts in theory.

Impressed with beast, destroyed by beauty,

Missing first light out of filial duty.

Awake at night when vision means little,

Embalmed in wordplay, pursuing the riddle.

Of time, of death, of love, of doubt,

These are the things one can live without.

To mark a page, to smile part wistful,

To ignore the life instead of the vigil.

To think insightful,

To think Descartes,

To think it's tasteful,

To think it's art.