Photography Art Rants Poetry

Monday, September 05, 2005

Minstrel of Material Things
C. Bowman

I hear you're santimonious sigh.
Such poverty of the soul.
Your vaults are filled with insecure wants and needs.
You cling to all these carnal illusions
like a scab trying to imprison healed skin.
Manicured pieces of your soul......
perfectly placed for the world to view.
The clientele is content with what they see.
Aesthetically pleasing clean straight lines,
everything has its place........
except truth.