The Theft of Beauty

In such days flown out of days as these
nothing is given, nothing is lost—despite appearances
In the churning ore, connected cavities can be venous;
like nuggets, or residual itineraries, or a meandering
that circulates, awaiting, expecting an inflation
How are dreams nothingness repurposed;
is absence the stuff itself; is it hope flown the coop?
What isn’t there is what we make and what makes us,
like an understanding, perhaps, of how occasionally
in the very theft of it, the gift of Beauty lies

• • •

Image credit: Johannes Plenio (adapted from source)

Father, son, husband, friend and writer by day; asleep by night. Happily pondering the immortality of the crab wherever words are shared.

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