I am the sad art, complicit in its enterprise of time,
Yet limited, engaged, beseeched in the abstract struggle
For harmony. -- Harmony which never comes
Like the rainbow, harmony that shuffles off men's living
Skulls, this discordant will resonant with its own
Contradictions, celebrity for them, made into something entirely new,
Which it is not. Even the pleasure, that weaves deftly through the seams
Of pain, makes that pain plausible, and suggests it, provides
The foundations of its primal being. This pain is the concrete
Of abstraction, the very real suffering that makes palatial heavens
Possible. The world is like a dirge, if poetry is its maestro.