… so we love the artists less
A step removed from death
Farther from, and yet
Closer to truth too
With art as argument
Subjective logic spent
Breaking mores lent
Their ancestors few
Their tongues of flesh or feather
Of hair, of string, of leather
A palliative endeavour
To speak true
Of feeling more than we can hold
Of knowing less that can be told
The form of grief they best uphold
At last outlasted too
Their promise is not liberty
Their liberty is you


Doer and Dreamer, happy anywhere the snow flies.

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