Life ladles pain in heaping spoonfuls.
Art demands everything,
it gives no quarter,
while striving for the numinous.
If fortune favours too lavishly,
out of the woodwork they come.
Twisting naïve eccentricities,
casting doubt, distorting facts.
True or not, who knows?
Accuse and kill the spark.
Observe the dying soul of a living man,
who once thrilled the slack-jawed populace,
leaving them enthralled, enchanted.
Time passes.
Who really cares?
Just another buzz.
On another day.
Late for the bus,
what’s for lunch?
Whatever.
For a share of a dead man’s largesse,
who no longer has need of it.
Sworn under oath, now recanted.
Skeptical journalists query –
Is it for the money?
Who knows?
Greed, want, betrayal, skullduggery –
nothing new under the sun.
Truth? Reputation? Pah!
A dead man has no need for millions …
Pay, the legal mavens advised,
Your work is more important.
Never pay – it’s damning.
But for those who never doubted,
the heart connects to its own, always,
bestowing gratitude for the artistry …
For who knows?
