Mozart heard, poets know,
rarity of art has always been conspired
in reliquaries, recalling jealously
the precious echo of conceit: beauty
was created by a creator, before all,

but as air will carry song,
walls will swallow all chorus,
and though where form fades, it may be lifted,
it will always have been stolen,
as what is kept
is not dominion, what is sound, a word,
the shape of us, such colors we behold, my God
never once created, only copied
for the rest of us.

01/28/2021

Posted on 01/28/2021
Copyright © 2024 Matthew Zangen