Forms are many and beauty is one.
Beauty that is eternal,perfect even when undone.
We all crave beauty,so much it is true,
For whoever wrote a sonnet for a bad tempered shrew?
Or a twenty page thesis on badly written prose?
Who turns away from beauty that is tangible,that is close?
Helpless in our addiction to perfection are we.
I admit I like,in my garden , a well pruned tree.
Yes,I revel in writing under unruly oaks,mostly,
But putting that in my backyard’s quite a task,don’t you see?
Pictures of orphaned kids doth make the heart bleed.
Whose pictures do you Like though,who’s tweeting up your feed?
We all enjoy bouts of temporary divinity,
Then resort we must to normal comforting insanity.
Quite the liar I am when I preach.
Damn.I even want my verse in sizes of four lines each.
Who isn’t guilty of liking beauty? Why talk of blame?
Beauty is the drug,quite the rule of the game.
