The Patron
The patron sits quietly
Not knowing what to give
Wishing he had the riches
To buy time to spend.
Wanting to offer more
But spent by the days end,
To push sysiphus' stone up the
Hill again tomorrow.
Wishing he could afford
To lift Atlas' burden off the back
Of his passionate friend
So he may flourish unfettered
By reality.
The artist judged the patron
As a patronizing twat.
Without the struggle
Where is the pleasure?
How could a man in a bubble
Appreciate the air?
It would stale and pale the spectrum
Of experience.
The patron meant well
Labouring on...
The artist painted his picture.
The patron had nothing to say
The artist painted his picture.
originally posted on bleedpoetry.com February 5th, 2013
