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“I am sure If I were An artist I would concentrate On the bone end Of a bird’s broken wing Or the bullet hole In cold, damp, dead flesh And the transition from death’s cold warmth To the putrefaction Of a biochemical mess And I am sure If I were An artist That these dead and dying things Which are within themselves Beauty Would bring me closer To her life And to her Beauty Which is beauty within itself” — Gordon Roddick
I am sure
If I were
An artist
I would concentrate
On the bone end
Of a bird’s broken wing
Or the bullet hole
In cold, damp, dead flesh
And the transition from death’s cold warmth
To the putrefaction
Of a biochemical mess
And
I am sure
If I were
An artist
That these dead and dying things
Which are within themselves
Beauty
Would bring me closer
To her life
And to her
Beauty
Which is beauty within itself