Art Stings

Art stings sometimes. Sometimes we stare at art
And can’t pretend to like it, though we try,
We pray, we wander mentally, we pry
Truth from its jaws, and forcing things apart
Becomes the motive centre of our heart.
What did I mean by that? One beady eye
Stares, bleak and cloudy, unamused but wry,
At this creation, vicious from the start.

If art is like a hornet, is its sting
An underused defence? Do we pull thorns
Too easily from roses, saw off horns
From buffaloes, force silent crows to sing,
Expunge regret with green pills? Whispering,
Art should undo the world that it adorns.