AN ARTIST'S LAMENT

My truth is blood and flesh in paint and stone
which lies unborn and naked in Dream's fire
stretched taut, white canvas skins on wooden bones,
which cries: "A soul is all that I require!"

Some days my heart will not embrace the mindless,
and when I seek an answer to these misdirections,
I taste a bitterness within the milk of human kindness
which claims its gods are all miscast in my reflections.

Can life be more than dreams our logic has us mock?
Can one fish please a multitude? Can one rock feed a crowd?
If fables still sustain us, what lies must Truth unlock?
If fear must seed delusion, is peace in prayer allowed?

Now read my dreams on silently,
in pigment, cloth, and clay;
so when they ask: "Remember me?"
You'll know, I have not gone away.
 

~ Bud Evans, (c) 2000 ~