Seven Sketches

Seven sketches were all the artist had
Left in him before his death

And one by one his art pad filled with
Life passing before his eyes

Shining once again in the bright sunlight
He dove into his masterpieces

Born of his illness and his salvation
Weeping at the thought of putting down his brushes

With greatness he surveilled his reputation
And the critics who tore his dreams apart

When he knew that all that mattered
Was the tear in the eye of the patron

As the gallery announced closing time
And the workers steadily prepared for the next exhibit

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