What night sky stars without the dark?
What crimson vine without its thorns?
Which sweet symphony does embark
Without a minor all script-long?

Where the corridor of perfect art?
What is laughter without lament?
It is truth, each blissful part
Is warped by grief and all round bent.

I, the dark, the thorn, the artist’s flaw
That through me all else seems pristine,
The rarer dye lost in maw wherein
Lies vanity twixt false gleam.

Who the maestro- the proud playwright?
Surely not they- They shine too bright.

S.S. Bartlett

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