Abstraction's foil
 personifies itself in the brushstrokes of revolutionaries. 
Of prophets and artists, 
of song and written word, 
and above all of poets. 
That sort of Godless genius 
who answers not even to herself; 
adheres to no form of thou shalt, 
whether it be not or do. 
Who runs free with senseless reason 
Swims through seas of paradox 
and makes sense of lunacy. 
The enlargement of her groundless imagination, 
that burns down brothels and ransacks churches. 
That robs of selfish blindfolds 
and pries open our tightly wound fists- 
scattering the ashes of institution over our trembling hands- 
instructing us to build cities
from malleable stones of inquisition. 
Only the poets know what should be will be. 
And what cannot will also be.
 And are scared of nothing.
 For, they see enough to know 
that there is nothing to fear.

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