An artist is dying,
Unpublished, unrecognized and unknown
Born for a true value, love
He is dying in the world of false values
A world that seeks money, respect and power
Power, to stamp someone down
Respect, to feel their might
Money, to buy rich lands of the town
He is dying, unable to smell the reeks
For this world has such filthy seeks
Oh, what a day has come and what a night?
Fading is now, which was once a refulgent light
Nascent and naïve his works are
Beautiful and pure his thoughts are
None knows that he wrote beautiful lines
Neither his neighbors nor his parents
And those who knew never approved it
Yet he wrote for love, with love, about love
What a fool he is? The world uttered at his back
For his thoughts are their dirty minds beyond
Notice his art, at least on his deathbed
For that, it would let your forget many bothers
The pale face that wrote about the romance
Romance of the lover, the son, and the mothers
Notice him, for this, is the final chance
He gave so much and never got it back
Forgot, he had one truth in this world
It takes whatever we give and never gives back
Loved reading this poem! Many bitter facts presented here. I can't understand why people don't appreciate art!
ReplyDeleteAwesome poem Brad!
Thanks a lot Valli for the comment I love this poem
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