He murdered himself,
All of his work undone by desire
That drove him to pursue the unreachable goal.
In the end he was not that artist.
No one took note, and none to acquire
The wealth he claimed or stole.
He acted upon every stage,
But under the lights he could not feel
The eager souls that lay beyond his gaze;
Briefly enthralled but hardly won,
They forgot him and left nothing to seal
His fame or even to praise
His work. He should have listened.
He should have stayed to churn up the old soil.
He should have planted and followed the mandate,
The hundreds of years of harvest.
But the song that made him toil
For nothing led him to his redacted fate.
© A. M. Siriano CC BY
The Old Guitarist, by Pablo Picasso – The Art Institute of Chicago and jacquelinemhadel.com, PD-US.