Artist.

An artist once told me

All artists are the greatest liars in the world

They hone the skills of fabrication

Of taking menial things and showing them

As walls of glory, whimsy, fantasy

He told me that they do this to escape

Another artist said to me

That artists are the only source of truth

Still left in this world

They open our eyes to the wonders

Which hide themselves in plain sight

In our own boring, menial lives

He said that the artists have acquired a talent

Of showing us what the world truly is

A tapestry of glory, whimsy, fantasy

A friend once told me

All artists die young

And it’s just their corpses that continue on

Gogh, yellow

Another friend said to me

Artists are the only true magicians

The only ones who make themselves immortal

Lisa, undying

An artist once told me

He felt like the tin man, beyond repair

And he loved the smell of unknown things

Until his dying day, he never once

Repeated a flavour of cigarettes

I still see him, sometimes

Rising up in the grey of a strangers’ smoke 

His canvases lie, forgotten – 

Behind his bed of cement

It was his wall of fantasies that 

Separated him from us rest

A grey fog, imprenetable

A grey mind, a fortitude

Colored hands, an identity

Whimsical canvas, a necessity