i heard the art in Escher,

the subtleties of genius

peeking round the bends of grace

presented on levels-black-levels of charcoal

and pencil sketch

and mistakes

and corrections

and bad days

to chaos-reptiles-geometry

and who knows the intent

but the artist and the sun,

and it burned

but i touched the heart,

the secrets in the sin of beauty,

and breathed a fog,

so i would not be overcome.

but so much like the fear,

vapours too refused to hold on to tightly

and vanished

as lies are oft to do.

i saw the art in the glass,

beyond the reflection of a green face,

and i spoke

so softly,

even you might not have heard,

'what have you done.'

return the art, oh Monet, oh Cummings,

return the heavens

to the heavens

until we learn to see, hear or touch.

we remain,

quite undeserving