Monet Monet

Cezanne Van Gogh at 19 Monet

Diaghelev Darcier

The calm is deceptive: the disguise is complete;
It is only underneath; aye, the cauldron boils;
What awaits us? Where is the source? And too,
That miracle; that special warranty we cherish,
Where there is only chance; we seek for what we
Will never understand; even if it is held securely
In our hands. We cherish, we exult, we have our
Small triumphs; the panoply of events; the sheen
Of life; it is here the image exceeds the values.
There is no set pattern; afterwards we rue our
Deliberations; inner conscience, too, is a happier
Moment: stilled in fantasy; our mask hiding the
True identity; it is a costumed ball; can't you
See that? We are dressed, the color, the excited
Extravaganza; the eyes bright, and, so, ah yes,
We parade, like mannequins, for our little charade.
This, my lad, is the wall; that veil of the actor's
Assumption of character; the seeming, or being,
What is not; the incompleteness of it all; when
We seek to recover from the pedestrian gestures of
Small minds; then we are nothing, or perhaps, less
Than nothing; To some, this is part of the game,
But to others, the bottom is shallow; they cannot
Countenance the deliberate pretense; the stubborn
Question persists; with that coming of truth; and,
The specter which lives dormant, comes. Look, do
We expect better? It is the ghost of self, living proof,
Get it, of our connection to something remote; a
Reality beyond reality? A compulsion, hidden away.

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