just as a painted landscape, dimension and depth disappear
before my eyes, and like the slide of turpentine,
movement slowly ceases 'till the fragrant bead dissolves
into the tightly woven weaves. visible no more,
the aroma remains profound, as though there shall be no end.

i can't seem to find the mark where preservation placed its hold,
a naive attempt at keeping age so young.
a barrier between the world of quickly passing glances
with ever changing tastes, and eyes of failing foresight
which cannot find their pace.

composed of sacred balance, aesthetics defined
by what we can not know, sable and squirrel,
or some other mammalian hair, delicately define the strokes
that hold impossibly stable forms. they remain nothing more
than the anticipation of change.

i hold dearly their ideals set before me.  
worlds not yet conceived, sonnets of they eye.
immaculate conception of material, geographies of a mind;
i know to kneel and weep. i know their end is near,
while framed and draped in hammered sheets of gold.

unfurling cracks appear, sounding cries for renewed youth.
howling dearly to hide their hidden truths.
i listen within earshot, the call of dying lies
and feel no remorse. no guilt. no sympathy. their backgrounds protrude abruptly, like mountains from the sea.

although, their time is not like mountains or
the falling and rising seas. they remain only for our pleasure
and contemplation, when money and interest build into cacophony. confusing onlookers to believe a misplaced value, not an artists intention, to become only what man makes their purpose.