Lost in space we spin with no clue,
who are we, where are we, what should we do,
these questions and more always knock on the door,
as the nights drift by like sand in the sea.
The dull winds roll the clouds through the darkened sky,
yet draw little notice as they softly drift by,
a storm, once brewed, draws an eye or two
only if it threatens to lash at our backs.
The word on the page is read,
though fades under neglectful disregard,
in time it will be all but erased,
not a whisper, no more a trace.
Thus to all time tears away,
anger, love, jealousy dismay,
till nothing is left but bone and stone,
to dry and become brittle and jagged; alone.
The mind is a mess and does not see itself,
it may rest but not collect dust on a shelf,
straining, grinding, cranking groaning,
its gears shift slower and slower.
The Artist sits and stews over pencil and paint,
depressed, drunk, alone, his voice is faint,
his canvas is blank and his paper is bare,
not a word, not a line, not a color, not a mark.
His world, his inspiration, his raison d'être,
cannot even bring forth a single sketch,
his motives are failing, he cannot succeed,
he can only endure more of life's agonies.
Days repeat, existence blurs,
Suffering from the scorns of the world,
'draw from your pain, make it your gain'
he is told again and again.
It is to no good,
when words are not understood.
