Ars longa, amata

IV

i write in cursive about the anatomical chart
from 1728
and draw aquamarine gemstones;
there's a certain beauty i bathed in
the moment i learned of the great nebula in andromeda,
the runic alphabet,
the aesthetic of lahore pigeons and
the rosy maple moths.

there is beauty in knowledge,
and there is grace in creation,
but until when will i pretend i create
only because i long for it?

in all certainty
i know i write with madness
and create with ardor
because it is the one thing that creates a sense of
companionship in my loneliness.
if not create or learn,
what must i do but wait for life to pass?
what do i do
when i do nothing?