The Price We Pay

The fates bestowed upon our artists

are both cruel and unasked for,

at least not conscientiously,

not at the crack of night

with the wisp of an answer hanging

in front of us like a lure,

leading us out into our pysche

like hikers in a trance.

We have woken to find

our necks in nooses

and society at the lever,

our backpacks filled with mysteries

torn apart and handed out like trinkets

to the masses, who stand and watch

with our answers in their hands,

witness to our sacrifice.

The price, what we all agreed to

in that treacherous hour before dawn,

is the final joke –

we do not realize that

it is us at the lever,

as we reach for our paintbrushes,

and our pens.

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4 thoughts on “The Price We Pay

  1. Oh, wow, love how you ended it, Natalie. It does sometimes feel that way, doesn’t it?
    “not at the crack of night
    with the wisp of an answer hanging
    in front of us like a lure,”

Thoughts? I love those.

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