It’s all a performance,
All of it,
Each breath wears a top hat and cape,
Shuffling onto a stage,
There are no volunteers here,
Only a captive audience,
But the tricks are played regardless,
Global sleight of hand,
Slicing maidens in twain,
Pulling the heads of rabbits from hats,
Smoke and ash and mirrors,
And at the end,
No applause is heard,
A grim reaper is drawn,
Is that your card?
These days,
I’m more of a marionette,
Twirling on puppet strings,
Performing to no audience,
Jigging upon stained-glass,
Acting against my own interests,
These controlling cords,
They descend from somewhere above,
Puppeteer unknown,
Like veins pumping demonic blood,
Piercing my hands like stigmata,
Wrapped about my limbs like tentacles,
I’m so tired,
Yet here I pirouette,
I’m on puppet strings,
And I don’t want to dance anymore.
Folks always extol the worth of certain souls,
Sportsmen and craftsmen and merchants,
Politicians and drivers and hairdressers,
They glorify the benefits these have upon their lives,
Overt blessings upon their lives,
But do they think of the artists?
A true unifying force of human nature,
Less important?
Less palpable in their perks perhaps?
Sculpture to break up the monotony of construction,
Literature to open the mind,
Music to bring an emotive bounce to your being,
Paintings to lay bare invisible elements of the human condition,
Theatre to bring to life stories of eons,
Dancing to exhibit human beauty in mobile styles,
Less important?
Imagine your day without television or busker melodies,
Your living space without beautifying icons,
Without the great paintings of historical genius,
These may not keep your body alive,
But they breath life into your soul,
We need the arts to be human,
And not mere machines.
WorldofHarley 