Thursday, August 5, 2010

A Creator Questions

"Why do we make art?"

is the question barked

by the yellowed sketchbook

of a friend found folded

on the floor,

I sought to answer right

then, challenged by the old

question as never before.


We continue because of

the lure of immortality,

a brass ring swinging

teasingly above our

outstretched fingers grasping,

presuming our talents

push us closer to

the winkling goal

and not over the edge

sanity lost because

of a few bad bets,


like a roulette wheel

our life’s work is the wager

we pin our hopes to,

merit badges shined bright

for prolific status earned

by prodigious talent

praying our chance

won’t pass us by,

a bouncing white marker ending up

in someone else’s square,


unfulfilled destinies gnawed bare

bit by bit to a fraction

of their former glory

fermented, rotted, bound

in stagnant traction,

left brittle and lean,

we harbor these cavities,

decayed joie de vivres are

the cruelest embodiment

of a never-ending pipe dream.

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