Love for Those Not Listening

does it make sense to try to market art, to those who can't see beauty and buy their comfort?

Touched with fire, my desire is abated
By the infiltrated systems of intellectual boxing,
Talking, taken aback
From the fact of the flower,
The power to describe it is only valid in the company
Of those who seek to perceive it.

Does it deceive, to linger in description?
Can my fiction become depiction
Of something that is for your own eyes?

Why surmise on your behalf,
The pleasure of your own descriptions?
Prescriptions writ for the ill-descript,
And sold for penny fare.

Would it really cost so much,
To stare a moment longer?
Like we, like children of aging
Vestige, congested perceptions,
Of the selections safe to savor.

And I, the stranger satisfied,
To let the moment linger.

Author's Note

personal soapbox: If your waiting for permission, prepare to expire cold and unsatisfied, ready for the box.

Please, please, and always, speak for your own self. Comment anything.