ode to misanthropy

1

It is as clear as thought could ever make

The dream that harbinger th'impossible

Conceit that beauty is for beauty's sake.

Amoral art, albeit desirable,

Would mean to have created something that

Deliberately lacks the predicate

Of being of interest for contemplation,

That's therefore not perceived to be stopped at,

Not worth the pleasure to reiterate,

In lingering constructs, an act of fashion.

2

For nothing that exists does not derive

Its value from the pause that it provokes,

As the rest of the spared conjures contrive

To justify delay by wealth's own yokes.

It might be true that nature is the source

Of the sublime lines poorly counterpoised

By poetry and painting's graven ledges:

But poesy it is, which grants the senses force

To shower light where verses lay enclosed

By coarse delights in need to shine their pledges.

3

And humans are a worthy piece of work

Deserving thoughts for what made them look so,

And thus deriving th' agencies that lurk

Behind an urn that mustered them for show.

But, contrary to animals that are

Blessed with the lack of rhetoric to thwart

How pleasing it's to be each other's clays,

Our pleasures must with pleasure harshly jar,

As for a moment's notice we retort

Th'extremes of loves to bargain for self-praise.

4

Therefore, conceit rigs the embosomed beauty,

Where fancies their apparent blossoms anchored,

But withered to embalm light's slithered duty

On supple shades for subtle ardours armoured.

Misanthropy, it is, that liberates

The human's face confined to the abuse

That humans on each other writhe for loot,

And in its privy bastion celebrates

How graces their enamoured dance diffuse

With insistence ignored by the blessed brute.