In the fog of uncertaintyportrait of the artist
a train carries me
through the discarded husk
of your ended life
your studio keys in my pocket
your diaries in my haversack
open in front of me:
so many of your appointments
never to be kept
friendships left cut in mid-air
and somewhere ahead;
a whole room of paintings
faces turned to the wall
like sulking children
waiting to turn and tell
their story of a life
of a man who tried and failed
as must we all but went down
fighting like no other
my brave hopeless brother
the blood on the walls
you taught to sing.

This entry was posted in Art, Photography, Poetry, Psychology, Uncategorized, Writing. Bookmark the permalink.

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