Day 79


Day 79 Wednesday 4th July 2018


© 2018 Steve Cook

Of late it has become real to me

That any man who sets out to be

An artist of any kind or description,

Who displays his creations for others' inspection

Risks the scorn of an indifferent world

Or, worse yet, being completely ignored

By a universe too busy with its own concerns

To appreciate his effort or even discern

Any effort at all was made in the direction

Of its salvation, enrichment and beautification.

Most of the world's artists are waiting in vain

For some indication it was worth all the pain

For applause, acknowledgement or even a smile

To tell them their efforts were vaguely worthwhile.

Yet they persevere through the deafening silence

Doggedly renewing their poetic licence,

Writing epics in blood that nobody reads,

Busking for sleepwalkers on indifferent streets,

Playing their songs to the world's empty halls,

Opening their hearts to the Muse when she calls,

Sculpting the visions that shine in their head

And hoping for fame long after they're dead.

But the joy of creation is its own reward

Each artist's a hero, or no artist at all.