The Pseudo-Portraitist

I declared that the world has to let go of love Free it and never allow it to come back For what goodness can cause it to flourish If the ogres of common sense swear in its name And what is it but self-abasement on my part If what I take hold of now is a prototype of its enemy To live for nothing yet kill for wisdom For death springs forth from the mind As my pencil becomes a soldier of sloth.