A poem

Art

In our minds it lies within our reach far beyond this bitter breach
of sanity and waking sleep.
I can't unwind what my eyes have seen I force the dreamer to endless dreams.
It is in his hands these empty hollows these bitter sweet un-etched tomorrows.

Art they call it and the minors amass as they bring out their wallets to entice the upper class.
I haven't wished to know the secrets or to unravel what pleasantries you wish them to have
For art in itself is a selfish indulgence only performed for ones own laurels.
Seeking money, for tomorrow it spoils.