Slighted Artist
Obscured by curtains in a squalid room,
Ignored and trampled on by those above,
The slighted artist has no place to bloom
And no confessor for his need of love.
He roams the streets at night in search of friends
Who might remind him of a brighter day.
At last he turns around, goes home, and spends
His time in flights of fancy far away.
At day his torpid mind is irked and bored;
He finds himself the subject of half-witted thoughts
And he would rather be avoided and ignored
By men whose dreams by vanity are fraught.
Find my poems and published poetry volumes at www.eton-langford.com
|