There is a lack of an artist
in our world,
our society,
today.
Civilisation ceases to be just that
without the genius brush on the easel
or the charismatic words on a page
or even without the sound of music
In arts place, we have sickness
Sickness in the embodiment of
a piece of paper with a numeric
Sickness in the hearts of men
who care nothing more than to get a coffee
and to beat the red light
Learn to love the red light, my friend
Learn to love the wait
for it will lessen the strain
that unnecessary strain
of commitments in half beliefs
You must embrace
the simplicity of every heartbeat
the simplicity of every sunset
on every dormant Sunday
It is within the calm rustle
of the leaves of the trees
that the whispers of truth speak longest,
with words of wisdom
that settle in your ear;
“Stay calm, and be easy
you men of restlessness,
for there is nothing
worth your worry,
for there is nothing
that can harm you,
that already hasn't,
for there is nothing,
nothing
at
all.”
Jan 19, 2011
Jan 19, 2011 at 6:20 AM UTC
There is a lack of an artist
in our world,
our society,
today.
Civilisation ceases to be just that
without the genius brush on the easel
or the charismatic words on a page
or even without the sound of music
In arts place, we have sickness
Sickness in the embodiment of
a piece of paper with a numeric
Sickness in the hearts of men
who care nothing more than to get a coffee
and to beat the red light
Learn to love the red light, my friend
Learn to love the wait
for it will lessen the strain
that unnecessary strain
of commitments in half beliefs
You must embrace
the simplicity of every heartbeat
the simplicity of every sunset
on every dormant Sunday
It is within the calm rustle
of the leaves of the trees
that the whispers of truth speak longest,
with words of wisdom
that settle in your ear;
“Stay calm, and be easy
you men of restlessness,
for there is nothing
worth your worry,
for there is nothing
that can harm you,
that already hasn't,
for there is nothing,
nothing
at
all.”
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