To Ernest Sylvia and Vincent
You make me write this poem,
you with art in your hands.
Was it because no one cared Vincent?
Was it because they cared Ernest?
Was it your stated goal Sylvia?
Was it the pain of life,
or the meaningless shuffle to chaos,
the eons that can overcome your work?
Ah it was that fish
that fish that turned to bones.
Your greatest
is no greater than the single flower
blooming and fading.
I must kick your bones.
My worth is tiny beside your greatness
as your greatness is tiny beside the eons.
I must kick your bones.
Life will kill you soon enough.
When I see the momentary flower
I am carried by it
to bliss.
When I see your flower
I cry.
david michael jackson June 1, 2012 editors@artvilla.com
