Withal, an impoverishment, you think;
or a beauty of the world obscured by delusion or illusion?
A bit transcendental, perhaps,
or not; perhaps
a dream that can be reconciled
by the artistic muse
that floats within itself; or not.
A plethora of light that is quite void.
And lines on a page that are lost for sense,
or sensitivity, or love
for a landscape
that doesn't exist any more.
Requiem centuria americanae.