The People Come From All Around
The people come from all around.
“Here, here! There’s an artist on display
at the center of town. Come one, come all…”
The familiar sound of a hawker’s call rings through the city’s streets.
On-lookers from priests, doctors, to the police
flock toward the city center.
There they’ll find an artist in a cage,
performing like an actor on stage.
She writes with haste, trying to please the crowd.
She pours her heart in to poems, stories,
novels, but still the crowd wants more.
“If I bleed a bit for you on this page,
would you set me from the cage?”
The crowd cheers and the artist goes to work.
She searches for inspiration in the darkest of places.
To what length would she have to go?
To these people it’s all a show.
By which weapon will she sacrifice her soul for the fervid crowd?
It matters little to them.
She goes with one about death.
It goes on about seizing the moment,
time, sorrow, and- I think you can guess the rest.
The artist’s words were immaculate.
No poet alive would have matched her.
But still, the crowd wanted more.
So the poet went back to work.
She left everything she could on the page this time.
She went to the very edge of her mind
to find something deep enough to please the horde.
She bled all she could.
The girl now lays where the artist once stood.
The crowd begins to dissipate.
They lament about how the girl could have been great,
“If only she didn’t work herself to death,
she bled until she had nothing left.”