Them

Their work,
Such color,
There is a feeling and truth to be found in the lie of their art.
Theirs is a symphony which is robust and purple and fills the spaces between the eyes with cracks of lightning across empty grey matter.

Mine.
Utility.
Function.
It is squares and scaffolds which support the lifeless and grotesque facade of a totalitarian edifice.
It is the base and despicable act of human building.

Theirs is the beauty of creation,
Theirs is the experience of feeling.

You Are Special

A pile of slate bricks accumulates amidst a landscape which is barren and infinite,
Save for the identical collections of bland mass,
Which rains down in odd intervals.
Oh!
Exclaims one passer-by,
What a unique arrangement of pieces!
Truly the work of a visionary!
The pedestrian moves on sparing little further thought,
Their eyes an identical hue to the wasteland all about.