©2018
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