There is no art that man creates
That time cannot erode.
For temporary steps in shifting sands,
Is all that his birth bestowed.
A bust of a hero or scriptures of God,
Or whatever deep things he might think
Shall as no monument stand when Earth’s continuous hand
Moves until all is extinct.

And what of Love? Begs the romantic.
Will it not last just as long?
As destruction is hurled by this murderous world
Will not love prove just as strong?
To this question I am silent
Because I know not if love will fade
My premise will amend and it will all just depend
On if love is a thing that’s man-made.

I wrote this is the City Park in Brussels, Belgium. It jotted it down quickly as I walked through because the park is filled with sculptures, as are most city parks in Northern Europe. They all ranged in varied states of age and condition. I imagine the oldest was no older than about 150 years old, maybe 200. Eventually time will have its say in how well they survive. Even if they are enshrined in a museum, they  are only a temporary thing in the grand scheme of things. I don't have too much faith in the durability of the human capacity for eternal emotion. Taking afterlife and salvation out of the lifeline equation, how long can human emotion endure? I am not the questioning romantic of which I speak. Realism has spoiled that treat for me.