I speak sensibly,
Wonder often about what they see,
Mark perfection only as a nominee,
Find a way to make everything out for me,

The older I get the more confusion I achieve,
Like a fledgling, green, senseless thing,
Who are these people wheeling and dealing in well-being,
Refuge, degrees, friends and family,
These are the things that are supposed to be comforting,

But I am in the cellar,
Looking too closely through wide open glass,
Squinting at the lights of the self-proclaimed insane,
Effected for a second giving myself away,
Oh what I would give to have more art up on display,

I would let it be the only thing I want each day,
Let it change how I behave,
Let it live without a frame,
Find the way it likes to hang,
Handle it until it caves,
And colors confined by lines are freed,
In the lair of the fauvist fiend.