Phoenix

plymouth-art-classes

 

Art

Is misunderstood;

Beauty, she is not,

But rather

The juxtaposition

Of the immortality of God,

And the inevitable impermanence

Of all that is borne of Him;

The flower fades,

The fruit ferments of the vine,

Humanity flares up like a firework,

And, falling, sets the forest afire from afar.

 

The fall is not art,

But rather, the art in the fall

Can be found at the very instant

That the flaring, fading, not-yet-falling firework

Reaches its zenith,

And, cresting upon the shore of its dreams,

Can rise no more.

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Don’t Call Me Beautiful

Girl with delicate  flowers in hair and fashion  fuchsia nail

 

Don’t call me beautiful;

I am not the sunset to your sky,

And besides, hasn’t anyone told you that beauty is but a fleeting lie?

 

Don’t call me beautiful,

I am not the soundtrack to your cinema debut;

And in any case, I – I am painted in a darker hue.

 

Don’t call me beautiful,

I am not the moth to your flame.

Call me by my name.