ART BIZARRE

to the art that never leaves the easel, the sculpture that's still clay, the songs unsung and the lines we wished away this is to the dreams left in bed the rhymes so unsettling and the painting so grotesque that the world would cower in horror for this our world revels in vanity not the ugly and unpleasant truth like a pot of herbs, bitter but healing left untouched on the healer's table as all scamper for the sweetened acid that squeezes life out of those who line, but paint we must, for those with eyes even in the noise, we still sing for a good ear knows to tell apart the sweet notes of a string well plucked from the noise normalized as song