The dying artist‘s statement
 
I opened my sewered mind unguardedly
And rats the size of childhood fears
Rummaged through empty cupboards
Lined with the past‘s unhappy news.
Truth, that bastard of eternity,
Dripped from a rusty hanger; mothballed,
Outmoded, death-trapped and creased,
Do-goodingly given to the needy.

 
Through the airless grill I clearly saw
The narrow path that led to the summit,
Mist-hidden from the fading sun,
And lined with the crucified fools
Who had tempted me with rack and ruin
Wrapped prettily as fame and fortune.
 
Beware-signs seen too late, they hung
Pointing where I should not have gone.
Estate-agents still misleading me
With half-truths about the views
Though it pained them to speak.
Financial lizards, innumerate now
But for the hum of lap-top mendacity,
Omniscient softwares that promised
Evergreen lawns and perennial cruises
To half-employed, unwaged, losers
Fearing wheelchaired hospice futures.
 
And I wondered if they too had
Planned for these chill autumnal years
Nailed now between their outstretched hands
With policies beyond redemption
Maturity dates long past and still
A guaranteed amount of inflation-proof hell.
 
But saw in their fears they had not,
Heard in their screams the arrears
They had gorged from others‘ profits.
Unable to bear their failures
Which were by default my own,
I turned my back on the mountain
That I must one day surely climb,
And faced the one-room hovel
That houses my bitter past.