Jun 2019
Fanciful words fall upon a flighty pen,
If only in the moment before they are written,
This is the trial of the artist-no-more.
To know that their once treasured wordplay has failed them,
Shored-up upon the hollow recollection of an intangible dream,
And dried to ash in place of the passion which once drove them.
If all the stars in the night sky had suddenly snuffed themselves out of incompetence, we would weep..though not for those too far from reach of our eyes, the quiet ones would fade as they had always been, dimming, and forgotten.
This is the way the world views the dying gifts of a pen..through the lens of stars centuries old, still remembered in their passions. All else..forgotten by time, and destined to feel it more deeply than anyone else around them.
If only in the moment before they are written,
This is the trial of the artist-no-more.
To know that their once treasured wordplay has failed them,
Shored-up upon the hollow recollection of an intangible dream,
And dried to ash in place of the passion which once drove them.
If all the stars in the night sky had suddenly snuffed themselves out of incompetence, we would weep..though not for those too far from reach of our eyes, the quiet ones would fade as they had always been, dimming, and forgotten.
This is the way the world views the dying gifts of a pen..through the lens of stars centuries old, still remembered in their passions. All else..forgotten by time, and destined to feel it more deeply than anyone else around them.
