The creative force once unleashed is a Sabre-Toothed vicious snarling beast unless our Art it feed. Greed.
A clockwork mouse stands in front trembling with the beat of a drum. Regularity: the clock’s ticks close to doom. The time stamp is on our every move and paint. From a predator’s height, eyed ready to strike.
The Laocoon heaved force overpowers as swift as a sentry’s throat-cut slit. Creeps silent as the night; watched, studied, by an Indifferent Host. This force can drive the flower dead if the blood does not flow: A surgeon’s bitter disappointment we. The gimbal-like balance at the edge of the cliff. The Constrictor’s squeeze, a burst balloon.
Fragile, in search, and pursuit, of beauty – !wow! – the enemies are many and surround tight. All in nature has its prey. To count odds is lies in the book of trivia. Which will never be writ nor make Art. A mote-drop crushing unseen. A speck-dusted eye in a blink does not mend but breaks.
The beauty of the forest the fire destroys. Happiness sudden Hell’s mouth agapes to swallow whole a momentary loss of sense of. The inattention fatal as at the front of the in the trench.
Think not that this is not true; not all but few have perfect balance. The wheel of life tips in our in our favour as in the throw of a dice.
Weak, strong, mental health or no, we all may succumb unless we attend and daily feed and feast this beast which does not slouch but stands hair-raised erect. Worse by far than the Fall in the Garden should the Artist not obey.
Still, we are smiling are we.
Malcolm D B Munro
Friday 17 August, 2018
Filed under: art, Arts, Literature, Media, Music, poetry, songs, stories
