Why
Bother
So I sit there, alone, working in
a ghostly glow
Moulding new images like they are
made of
Some sort of plasticene or putty
My screen and mouse are a type of
surgical robot
And I do this day after tortuous
day
Image after tortuous image
And for what purpose?
Nobody sees this work
(at least not how I want it to be
seen)
It is, I suppose, a labour of love
Building up a body of work
Using a variety of styles and
subject matter
Without a successful format
to copy endlessly for dreamed of
fame.
I have given up the guessing game
Of what people want, what they
value
And I confess to knowing no more
About their visual minds
than I do about their reasons for
doing
or their processes of thinking.
I can only hope
That as my work inevitably sinks
into the bottomless pit of human
failure
that a single spark may escape
to rise like a firefly
out of the black darkness
dipping and soaring on unstable
wings
to be noticed by just one admiring
soul
and cause a smile on one for whom
smiles may be precious rarities
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