The artist doesnt die
grandly
Not like Hemingway, Vincent or
Durer
Its not dramatic
Eloquent
Or even heroic
The death of the artist is sad, slow and
unobserved
Hastened by the job
The mortgage
The kids
By life
The artist struggles to remain
true
True to themselves
Against reality
Against cost
Against the fear of creation
These are the real artists
Lost in suburbia
The ones who never made it
Who couldnt cry loud
enough
Too cowardly to act
Too lost in life to reveal their
soul
Their purpose and meaning
lost
The growing appeal of
security
A security that meant nothing in a
youth
That laughs at the
conservatism
The need for a home
For the holidays
A youth that rages against the loss of
energy
That fire
That drive with no purpose
The laughter
The tears
The desperation
The freedom
That has been discarded for stability,
security and quiet nights in
That is where the artist dies
Not suddenly and with panache
But slowly, quietly and sadly
And that is the real death of the
artist
The death of ambition, hope, faith
And belief
The grave of the artist lies in suburbia
Among the culdesacs of
children
Toby Carverys
And the sadness of choosing safety over
the energy of life