Let me not to the intuit of true poetry
Cast aspersions. Art is not art
When it conceit finds,
Or bends with public senses
To be misused:

Oh, no! Tis an unfinished tome,
Of written prose fixed on ink and stone,
A beacon for generations to behold
Spoken for itself
And never owned.

Verse and prose yield not
To times whims,
Though ink stained digits
Decay within
Her sickled blade
Reduceth all to dust.

Our compulsion alters not
With her frigid certainty
But endures it out, even
To the edge of eternity.

   If this timeless effort 'folly,'
   And upon me proved,
   I have never lived
   Nor no one ever
   Truly mused.

~~~