If, as they say, art is madness,
Rather than sapience,
Whether it’s nothing,
Or everything,
None matters without it.
For the eARTh itself
Is entangled
And brewed entirely in it.
If, as they say, art is madness,
I’m, then, wallowing in neurosis.
Or maybe in the groans
Of the entire universe.
If the whelms can disperse
In the mighty presence of art,
The undeniable force, yet, lives
And they called it madness.
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