A poet, an artist, (with little restraint)
Penciled words on his canvas, saw no use for paint,
Crafted words into pictures; Visions out loud.
Of most of his work, was exceedingly proud.
Unfettered, unbounded, his huge canvas at wait
He brandished his pencil and began to create.
Desiring a masterpiece, appealing to all
Pride prompted his excess, preceded his fall
Trapped in a vortex, surrounded by words,
Shared them with others to see if they heard.

The public was skeptic, and reflected the same
His confidence shattered; His ability shamed
He had written with passion, as if possessed
But the silence of critics left him redressed.
“Who is it says everyone cannot be pleased?
Off with their heads!  Get them down on their knees!”
He drew a sharp sword, surrendered a laugh,
Sliced his canvas to shreds, cut his pencil in half.
“I’ve heard your silence, the first version *****”
Sharpened his pencil, wrote ‘Surrounded Redux. ’

PwL 4/20/15