CREATION
Underlying each massive monumental work
Is the fragile soul of its creator --
Brittle, easily cracked or shattered,
Dangerously exposed and vulnerable,
He is his own tiny Atlas
Holding aloft for the world to see
His unique masterpiece.
Yet he stands on the mountain top
Amidst shifting winds,
His feet are slipping, his legs shake,
His arms weaken as he careens
Near the precipice.
Thousands of solitary songs fill the air,
Each separate singer
Listening to a different drummer,
Individual flashes of brilliance and insight,
Painfully wrought or hewn,
Each brush stroke agonized over,
Each note chosen with precision,
Sculpted and shaped with inner tears.
But the greatest pain strikes
When no one cares, no one notices --
The cry is unheard,
The creation seems invisible,
Makes no difference,
Falls undiscovered.
The flow of the river remains unchanged
By that one rare ripple which is
Swallowed without even the
Dead leaves being disturbed.
The crime is complete, silent, secret.
No one knows how callously
The new Rembrants and Beethovens
Are left to wither and dry
And blow away --
Their exposed souls shriveling with neglect,
Murdered soundlessly by
An uncaring world.