Obscurity
April 12 2023
The suffering artist
in his lonely garret
with hopes of changing the world.
(Because suffering, as we all know
is essential to the making of art.
The unhappy
willing to transgress,
and the comfortable
mere copyists.)
Or is he compelled
to write/paint/sculpt
no matter what?
The work for itself,
even though
it will never be a living
or make him rich.
Even though
it may never see
the light of day.
But he is driven
and persists.
And while he may not admit
that he too
needs validation,
he nurses a faint but enduring hope
that some future generation
will recognize his greatness
and sacrifice.
I think of all the masterpieces
that are scorned, ignored, lost.
The artists
forced into menial jobs
who let their passion cool.
The conflagration
that consumed it all
in that fire-trap apartment.
And the undiscovered gem
that came to light
long after he was dead.
That while it didn't change the world
altered it.
Which is really
as much as one could hope for.
Even though
its provenance can't be traced.
Even though
no one knows where he's buried
or even knows his name.
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