I am struggling to some extent
with the lack of success
of my artistic work over the last year.
It’s not a sense of failure
nor do I feel unfulfilled,
but I am at times looking down
at the page
or listening back
to the sounds
and thinking “I only seem to be getting better.”
It is no doubt in part to blame
on my own isolation.
I have sequestered myself
with the only consistent things in my life-
my own optimism
my desire to mutilate ink
and endless grey smoke
In this tower I am a lonely wizard
too shameless to pretend
that I don’t feel that way.
Too shameless to pretend
that I don’t feel alone.
From here there is a vantage point,
and I can see light hiding
behind the horizon
but the people below, indistinct.
I’ve made forays down
to the paper world beneath
and shared a little
of the witchcraft
I’m perfecting
but it is mostly to jacketed backs and empty fields.
I have known great success
alone,
in silent repose or roaring mania,
but so few have known it.
It’s not the fear of blight
or obsolescence
but that these rotting golems
and tattered homunculi
will live without dancing,
their sole purpose
undone.
If you are out there,
I made it for you.
I’ll keep it till you find it.
And I’ll pray that you like it.
