Sublime Catastrophe

By Smera Verma

"Beautiful isn't it?" she asked.

"Beautiful indeed" said the hoarse voice from beneath.

Another masterpiece in the museum of arts,

Merely the varying shades of her wails.

Appalling it is, the place where art resides,

It's home, like a field of fertility,

The soil so black yet the fruits so bright.

"Why must it be this way?" ask those who do not know pain.

But for those who do, it is no foreign concept,

Grief romanticized as art.

After all, life conspired against the merry,

Tragedy had its win.

By Smera Verma