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.