All beauty is a social construct
Be it physical beauty, or art,
Or emotive beauty, all constructs.
Framed into our imagination from
Birth to death. To hold us
Hostage to image in our own mind.
There is no history to our sorrow
Other than the history
We are continuously, progressively,
Making now.
Empathy for the artist
Goes a long way to ignoring
The conflated social conditions
In which the artist arose.
I am just another pre-pressed
Hard drive in the Western mosaic
Of conditioned slates and mobsters.
We are all directionless and
Indisposed at merry turn of
Importance.
There is no truth in memory.