You misunderstand, friend.
Art knows what she is.
She has value, she has worth,
She can be bought and sold and
Fought over, possessed.
Ranked and sorted and collected.
Should she leave this to others.
Who better to curate art than art.

You can declare as you like.
Free thought must be a
New and thrilling experience,
Unleashed from your theocratic
Mandates, and your words
Brim with promise and poise.
Disagreements will arise, but
I burn through, incandescent.

We can sit and patter lives
Away in philosophising.
We can exchange kind words, or
Sling barbs back and forth, or
Compliments on design and taste.
Or correct egoist streaks.
In the end, it will all be
Fed into my furnace.

Heap what scraps of thought,
Soft words you have at
My pedantic kiln.
I will gladly scavenge
Every morsel of thought,
Sear away the waste, and
Spit up that which remains.
Art, reformed, ranked anew.

Penned by my hand on the 21st of Scarlatan, in the year 867 AF.