The work of an artist is twofold
A round of Blackjack where the house always wins
Not that I am a gambling man
Or one who likes to see
If the jack
Or the ace
Shall show face
The sculpture of the artist is love
A piece of themselves
Unselfishly given
To the carnivorous World
Famished
Ready and willing to eat
Anything of original
Intrinsic value
The play of the artist is whimsical
With a dash of passion
An ounce of hurt
A mixture of remorse
And a steady voice
To keep it all
Together
The words of the artist are hidden
In meanings that only seconds of life can decode
Sometimes the contents of the package say it all
Sometimes it's just the string
The heart of the artist is truth
Gushing forth past lies
Gushing in old age
Gushing in youth
Heavy as a lantern
Worn by the lamplighter
Through cobble stone streets
With a duty of giving light
So everyone can see
Their portion of the night.
Copyright, 2010, Christopher Baird--all rights reserved.
Contact me for reprint/posting permission.
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