Works of art rest on works of art,
Carvings frame rows upon rows of new worlds.
So beautiful, so untouched,
Are these inky worlds.
But how,
If left in this manner,
Will new worlds be discovered?
If no one reads them,
How can one be inspired by them?
Works of art
Become a resting place for minuscule remains,
Of a life gone by,
When works of art were devoured,
With a passion, and yet,
A delicacy, fitting of nobility.
What is this beauty,
If not to call?
What means this world,
If not to inspire?
What do we truly gain,
By losing ourselves?
