Our art reflects the dead whom we have loved
...necklaces and chains that bind the heart.
In nervous pity so my song calls out to Jove
desperate for such an inner word.
Or as my lover's paintings lift the feast
...all summer sun and tropical
amid the flowers and beast
but trained to abstract glory
like the feast within a tear.
Eternally in presence is the prayer of all such art
made in a sense to a God which never was.
For in being so we learn and die and come apart
...whereas the sacramental ghost is alive and always here
having never a need for the lessons of such death.
And yet, we fools believe the bounty of our cause!
To live forever! To exhale and speak a final breath...
...necklaces and chains that bind the heart.
In nervous pity so my song calls out to Jove
desperate for such an inner word.
Or as my lover's paintings lift the feast
...all summer sun and tropical
amid the flowers and beast
but trained to abstract glory
like the feast within a tear.
Eternally in presence is the prayer of all such art
made in a sense to a God which never was.
For in being so we learn and die and come apart
...whereas the sacramental ghost is alive and always here
having never a need for the lessons of such death.
And yet, we fools believe the bounty of our cause!
To live forever! To exhale and speak a final breath...
