The Artist...

Idle and lonely… in an empty room,

He spent his days alone.

He pursued what fancy, took his mind

And his name never was known.

Day upon day, year after year,

Left to his own devices

Working on things his whims supplied

Free from virtues and vices.

He cared not what happened beyond,

Outside his confining walls

All he did, was follow his mind,

Heeding, it’s numerous beckoning calls.

Some days he painted, the thoughts of his mind

Or a world he could only dream,

He drew landscapes, and colored the skies

And was content, to keep up this theme.

Some days he wrote, poetry or prose,

Of nature or its master… man

He beautified one and glorified the other…

But never to meet either, did he plan

He composed sometimes, in his quiet room,

Music that soothed the mind…

Yet no one ever, heard his notes

For they too… were kept confined

He read a lot… both books old and new

With an eerie sense of need

He read like a man starved from words

Quenching his thirst on their mead

He read, he wrote… for no clear reason,

He drew and played thus too

Food and books, his other rations,

Were provided for by his crew

He had saved up enough… in his working years

To make his retired life secure,

Books and food… and paying some wages,

Were the only expenses, to endure

A life expectancy of hardly seventy,

Was too less a span to waste

He figured early, that it would be tragic…

To die before his desires were faced.

He worked a few years… and made some money,

And then shut himself away,

He devoted himself, to his long term dreams,

Before he reached his final day

He had saved up enough, to need not worry

About the world catching up to him soon

He spent his way, through his hoarded pay

Humming his quiet life’s tune

From twenty two… to twenty nine,

Seven years… a tenth of his life,

He spent accumulating… as much he could

Before fleeing the existence that was rife

Ever since that, he worked alone,

For no purpose apart from joy,

His meager needs were taken care of,

And his fancies were in employ.

He didn’t know… and didn’t care

How good his creations were

The fact that, they pleased him was,

All the praise, they would incur

But, forty years… of creating art

Had left their telltale mark,

His work that at first was faltering and weak

Now contained a certain spark

After he was gone… at seventy

His creations raised a buzz

They awed all who studied them…

They wondered who their creator was.

It was the perfect ending, for everyone

Especially the dead recluse

He spent his life doing what he loved best,

Unhindered by fame’s abuse

The unsung genius, as he was later called,

Had received the greatest gift of all,

A fulfillment of his heart’s desires…

And freedom from society’s thrall

An amazing notion… and a brave step,

That few of us can undertake,

To follow our dreams, take a leap of faith

To not chase money… with its promises fake

He wasn’t a saint... he was just like us,

He just knew what he desired,

So he made a choice… and followed his heart

And led the life he admired.