I Lament

I lament a world
That loses the ability 
To interpret the past.

I lament a world
That reinterprets,
Instead,
And leaves nothing of its own
Because it becomes too timid,
Convicted only 
Of the conviction 
To do no harm.

It harms the world,
And I lament that world,
That permits its foibles 
When recognized 
But condemns them
When regretted.

What kind of world is that?

A flat world,
A world devoid
Of shape,
Of color,
Where differences
Are anathema 
Unless accompanied 
By guilt.

So much lost.

And we fear,
Always,
The coming world,
The loss of everything,
A climate of fear
Anchored by nothing
Except fear.

I lament the world,
Gargling gargoyles
And all,
For there are no frescos
In San Fransisco,
No artists,
Everything art
But artless,
No legacy,
All ambition suppressed,
The critics only critical
Of any such notion.

I lament such a world.

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