The civilization of
poets has thinned out.
There's a drought of
metaphors and symbolism.
We are all prisoners in
a musty attic.
Where is Emily when
you need her?
I'm afraid they've gone
the way of the graveyard.
Too much booze and
too many broken hearts.
Where have all the
painters gone?
Sunk deep in
cobalt blue.
Artists resurrect!
Come out and play.
These are days full
of sumptuous sunrises,
and nights laden with neon.
I long for those
Jagged edges and brush strokes
that bleed pain and love.
Art changes our world.
It makes the brutality
bearable.
The smell of paint and old
books, transport us to
a gentle place laced with
ambrosia that we all
should drink.
-
Author:
Thomas W Case (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: January 13th, 2024 20:08
- Comment from author about the poem: Check out my book, Seedy Town Blues Collected Poems on Amazon.com. and please check out my you tube channel.
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 15
Offline)
Comments4
Good write T.
Now me next poem, somewhat different to your title: 'Fall Down'. lol.
Lol Thank you.
mystic mutistic attic !
Thanks
A beautiful line.. art changes our world!
Thanks
Spot on mate....we need some classics of the future
Thank you.
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