Day 79 Wednesday 4th July 2018
© 2018 Steve Cook
Of late it has become real to me
That any man who sets out to be
An artist of any kind or description,
Who displays his creations for others' inspection
Risks the scorn of an indifferent world
Or, worse yet, being completely ignored
By a universe too busy with its own concerns
To appreciate his effort or even discern
Any effort at all was made in the direction
Of its salvation, enrichment and beautification.
Most of the world's artists are waiting in vain
For some indication it was worth all the pain
For applause, acknowledgement or even a smile
To tell them their efforts were vaguely worthwhile.
Yet they persevere through the deafening silence
Doggedly renewing their poetic licence,
Writing epics in blood that nobody reads,
Busking for sleepwalkers on indifferent streets,
Playing their songs to the world's empty halls,
Opening their hearts to the Muse when she calls,
Sculpting the visions that shine in their head
And hoping for fame long after they're dead.
But the joy of creation is its own reward
Each artist's a hero, or no artist at all.