The Why Of It


Why is it
the artist is often reduced invisible to those with no preference?

Are the mirrors not reflective
of that which passes before them?

And is there not a virtual vortex of creative energy
abounding ceaselessly before all such reflective surfaces

for everyone?

Why is it
that consciousness remains asleep in those of pedestrian desire?

Is not the polished silver for destiny's feast but refractive reminders
available to all, even those who will not remove the shades of fear
and look beyond the mirrors of their self-centered selves?

Why is it
gluttonous appetites of complacency’s empty nourishment
always create imperfect mirrors for the colorless ethereal bliss of ignorance?

Why is it
palates of taste are void of the desire to understand the palette of life,
where brush strokes of nature’s endless rainbow exist to bathe and feed
the starvation of purposeless minds once born with the innate endless imagination?

Why is it
the heart often languishes in the mindless exile of blindness?

The why of it all?

Today’s newborns may never know.