Beauty

Life begins. The tears are mine and the relief is theirs

At the end the tables turn.

This I was satisfied believing.

That nature is not rational; that it does not conspire

or shape by reason any object

to be good, or worth remembering.

So why am I so scared?

If incident alone brings me in and takes me out,

why does my mind now

grip my life's discordant shapes

and demand for it a meaning to match this great sensation?

Does this art demand an artist?

Are these pieces of a puzzle

or fallen leaves, and desperately arranged

called beauty still?