The Architect

I

I of semantics, you of bricks
Grammar, mortar, notre idée fixe
Fourteen lines in a sonnet, four walls, front door 
In these fundamental foundations there's surely a flaw;
For consistency's stability, do not overlook 
The power of incongruity, a pattern shook
The sub-conscious spewing into forms unrecognised 
A framework so abrupt but delicate in size 
Twisting and turning, stayed by foundations: my discourse
Linear precision, stark contrast, yet still a rapport.
For you the two arts are one and the same 
A reflective respite in the same refrain. 

II

A rose painted in stained red words 
Colours, senses conjured, a blurb.
A scripture on the beauty of nature,
A compliment to your flowing walls:
Bound boundlessly,
Meant not without
Care, endlessly
Spent so devout
See scarlet fire, call itself from the shimmering pond, that rose
Reflected in the window of: 
A house
A chateau
A  castle of prose.

III

The obstinate forbears of the art: so shrewd
Would frown on your creation,
Yet what green they scorn
Your perfection of an art
So perfectly formed.
A purpose, or none?
Dull, or beauty, aesthete?
Should artists hold scholars, academics at their feet? 
For the latter take the literal; reality, after a fashion,
But to love true reality transcends even passion 
The heat of emotion, its buoyancy higher
Does rise from the cold, clammy, factual mire.
For the feeling required to express; expression proper
Needs more than brain: needs flowing heart, no stopper.