I’d like to propose a toast to the artists
To the visionaries
The ones we’ve long since forgotten
For real dreamers are endangered
A species so minute they replicate that of a speck of dust on an old counter top
Foreign, and rather unwelcome
The last strand of a generation whose favorite question was “why?”

They are contaminated with an incurable plague
Of unsequestered life
Letting the savage nature of the world run its course, without letting in the demons they were destined to succumb to

Like a sailboat bouncing in the cool breeze of twilight
They float above the rest
Knowing their infinite wonder crowns them royal
Their jewels a testament to their unbiased sentiments
Ones only few have the glory of basking in

It is here we see the true treasure
So carefully preserved
Useless to the rest of the world
Yet priceless to the king

For he uses it to free himself from the slavery that binds him to land
More valuable than any glistening rock ever could be

But as we know every Caesar has his Brutus
Such that every singer has their cynic
And every cook has their critic

Which is why we place these dreamers on probation
And lead them to skate on ice so thin the blade cuts straight through the narrow cracks to skim the surface of the daunting water beneath
Leaving a vulnerability the so-called “modern” generation hungers for

Why celebrate passion when we can pity peril?

And so the common fool grabs the microphone, speaks his truth, and lays down a tale even the great Aesop would envy, while being blessed for his experience
When the visionary says his piece he falls on deaf ears, his lack of forebearance leading to his opinions being baseless, rather inconsequential

And so the artist grows numb
Letting the novocaine of society draw away all sense
Leaving the empty husk of what was once a king
Now degraded to a common peasant

“Normalcy” they call it
“A cure” for an outspoken tongue and relentless heart
The vaccination for a cancer that never needed healing
For it drove the very spirit of humanity

“But no!”, we cry,
"His body never belonged to him."
Like the effortless movement of a marionette, he was forever destined to be guided
By the well worked hands of a madman

He dies that way
Bound to his maker
Always knowing he could fly
Never given the opportunity to use his wings

And the ones who come to his funeral are the very people who tightened the noose
Their tears are not of sorrow for him, but merely the exclamation of their own pain
As the beloved puppet leaves their blood-soaked hands

They lay him down peacefully
Lick their lips at the satisfaction of a job well done
And celebrate
The death of the romantic