What of those who bleed, bare-backs and listless legs, across the canvas,
endlessly staring into the darkness, awaiting enlightenment,
desiring everything and nothing, fulfilment and a blank mind,
wanting, always wanting,
but whose hands are too tiny to grab with greed?
What will become of them, these tragedy struck artists with hazy gazes, bloodshot eyes and dreams too large for one room to hold,
these rare specimen?
Will they wither like wrinkled roses when the banks and the government breathe down their bruised necks?
Will they survive the heedless endeavour of crushing creativity?
Will they fight back, mind and soul, until the last drop of suppressive blood has spilled?
No.
They will write and paint and compose, as always,
but their tragedy will bear a more sombre tone,
left with nothing but half-empty glasses and curdled ambition.