Edge of Tragedy

It's art on the edge of tragedy
fueled by life's inconsistencies
waiting for the end of times
by my hand some craft becomes
with the rest to be undone
the treasures gained past to ash.

Bright colors berate of consequence
the thread's consumed by dust's mantle
not be be woven to tapestries
instead the brilliance is obscured
unraveling without creation’s urge
to collect where none shall see.

What should have been is lost
whispers suspended ahead the speech
memories forgotten before they're had
lost to echoes turned inside
resounding vulgar inside a mind
wishing for silence ringing loud.

The madness asks for nothing else
it gives on whim of the good days
while keeping rest with selfishness
there the art exists in thought
twisted round the screw of mind
longing for the end of times.

© 2017. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20170418.

A friend said that everything I do is art.   This is a relative truth when my public face is observed.    However, this made me realize how much art I'm not creating, and how much art I may not create in the unknown future.  Perhaps some artists are completely satisfied with what they do.  The poem "Edge of Tragedy" is written with the voice of an artist who isn't satisfied with what they’re creating.