A poem.

The fine art

dazzling

daring

hanging

on the gallery wall,

yet

it did not move him

there was nothing, nothing at all!

he could not

makes sense of wild clashing colours

the passion

all the artist’s pain

now only valued for its’ financial gain,

Art has no point!

he sighed…

he tried

compelled by convention

to follow his wife

stopping at each piece

praying for release,

all his life

his pajamas folded neatly

by her

on his bed,

yet

this wild abstract art

glowing

flowing

knowing him,

on the gallery wall

still did not move him, no, not at all.

C26

C26