 I ask, where is it that art always fails?The obvious clue is that objects of art
Are fashioned from the materially inert,
To serve a short season, baring ideals
In that most worthy of receptacles,
The soul of man; and having played their part
Are stored, to attain status in the mart.
The gallery the object still reveals
Of adulation; cunningly, the shapes,
The shades, freeze like forced laughter of the moment
That daren't correct itself to seriousness;
For the transcendence of life art but apes,
And lost in its quite overwhelming comment
On life, is life; or art be nothingness.
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