useless art

Ravished by figures. I can’t count the times
Voluptuous, sordid, come-hither curves
Would slide across sheets with their listless verve,
Offering passion like talentless mimes.

Balances, frequencies, calendars, clocks,
Scribbled in frenzy or proffered with grace –
Burnt black or rose red, they caress my face
Like a hangman’s shroud, a coroner’s shock.

But to burn these books, let the ledger show
These base abstractions hold no more power
Than a swift breeze drying dew-dripped flowers.
Alas, pride reveals what I’ve come to know –

I grow old. The hourglass loses dust.
Numbers don’t lie but for innocent lust.