From whose tragic life does this beauty come,
Which yet draws art from deep within?
The pain of talent is borne like abject accolade,
Ever driving, a soul’s cruel mistress,
Or, perhaps, demanding whore
Whose vigil keeps as scavenger
As artist fades beyond control,
And she pilfers the fool of his worth.
Doubt greets him upon awakening,
Naked before his detractors
With wares on display,
And he listens, as mirth
Begins like lonely smile,
So eroded is his confidence
He tremors amidst the jeers,
Knowing as he does within,
That the frivolity confirms his fears.
So he runs far and fast,
As an artiste often will,
Seeking a hidden place of peace
Somewhere beyond the hills,
But he hears the taunting cries behind
Dumfounded as to why they hate his lines,
And he runs until finally his sinews fail,
His sculpture crumbles
And his music wails,
Until he finally is alone,
And with solitary ear to ground
He hears within a gentle tone.
Only then does he lastly come to know
That art is cruel mistress
And it has always been so.