Art is dead
Sold out and bought

The artist is dead
Killed by a golden weight

But the artist is now rich
It only took him an hour
To build a house with no foundation
only a week to sell the deception

Wait, where is his skin, did he not shed the white?
It lounges in the shade under a redwood tree

But what does it do, it cannot just sit all the day
It does far more than just become part of a portrait scene

But no one sees him, after all he is just a hollow skin
Struggling to pick the right word, or phrase that completes his fragment
Why does it take him months to complete, why does he not sell for profit?
How do you sell an apology? Can our souls be bought now at market?

He takes long
Because he cares