The poetry of poetry is the empty page. The music of music is the silence. The painting of a painting is the blank canvass. There is no escape from the twin tyrannies of inspiration and imperfection. (the Yin and Yang; order and chaos) Perhaps as light vanishes into light and shadows into darkness our 'time' is but a mirage lost in a dream within a dream; and the quintessential limit of all 'art' and truth, that we seek always to approach, in this brief-candle life ... is perfect Love.
Whilst I don't agree with you, Bruce, about the "always" and whilst I think there is a tremendous amount more to life than love, this is nevertheless as beautiful as all your poetry and it is a perfect blend of pessimism and optimism, of the truth and hope of a part of the human psyche.
a 'Universalist' !