An Artists Lament

No rhyme can capture,

The cries of an artist,

No words can elucidate,

The pain, a cyst,

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No strokes can perfectly paint,

The woes of an artist,

No colours, display,

Irritants: an unending list

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For artists are but mortal,

Enslaved by human coats,

Bound by cruel life,

Constrained by mechanical movements.

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For what can an artist do,

When faced with such beauty,

Enticing, enamouring, ecstatic

Vivid, vibrant, vivacious,

Soothing, solemn, sweet,

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Armed with a quill and brush

And camera and phone,

And a pitiful understanding,

Of the worlds beauty,

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What indeed, can he do?

When world hits him,

Hits, with beauties galore,

Whose depth, unphotographable,

Whose colours, unpaintable,

Whose curves, unwritable

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What indeed, can the artist do,

But jealously love,

But slyly glance,

But regretfully lament.

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