The Theft of Beauty A poem

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

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Image credit: Johannes Plenio (adapted from source)

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