The frustrated poet runs his fingers through his hair,
then strikes the last word of his final verse in despair
Across town, a painter incinerates a wooden facade of a steeple
For the existential artist, hell is truly other people
But the sculptor who whittles his work with a knife
Is solely the one who values his life
For he understands that the process of creation,
Does not rest within pre-calculation
Aug 29, 2017
Aug 29, 2017 at 8:22 PM UTC
The frustrated poet runs his fingers through his hair,
then strikes the last word of his final verse in despair
Across town, a painter incinerates a wooden facade of a steeple
For the existential artist, hell is truly other people
But the sculptor who whittles his work with a knife
Is solely the one who values his life
For he understands that the process of creation,
Does not rest within pre-calculation
