The Artists Lament …





Broad dazzling brushstrokes,


as hunger chokes,


penning odes to hope,


in dreadful penury, hurtling down the jagged slope.




Sketches and  drumbeats alive with passion,


lost in the cavernous stink of the latest fashion,


souls bared, creating music, poetry, and art,


lie discarded amongst the trash, doomed to be flung aside from the very start.




Dead artists long gone, their lives a living hell,


now fetching obscene millions, to the repugnant smashing sounds, of countless gavels that fell,


dead artists long gone, their lives broken and torn,


their works oohed and aahed at today, on the deadened walls they adorn.




Living music, poetry alive, the heartbeat of arts, today heaped on rubbish carts,


while the musician, the poet, the artist,


achingly watch their lifeblood as it slips away silently,


and into the drain quietly departs,



Ah! but to be up for sale in a century or two,


though as for now, who cares if the art is vibrant, vivid, and true?



Definitely not me.


Perhaps not you …