Art's form is function without purpose;
a meaning whose resonance echoes in
empty, vacuumed space.
Cleanliness and godliness defy messes
by purity projections against
the wall of frigid lights.
Absolute zero is an idea
whose time is frozen
to kingdoms never come.
Addition spells multiplication
as controls don't bother
with the friction burning mind.
Another ideal,
emptied by consciousness
to articulate language and
the briefness of lucid wakefulness,
animated by water and heat
to paint music with the poet's brush
and sing marble into air's solid smooth swirl.
Roman Ryan 