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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required The Death of Art He was an artist, a painter spending much of his time in his mother's garage painting when not out drinking with his many friends who were art lovers too, although some were hangers-on enjoying what they thought was a carefree life. His family came from an industrious group who had investments in many commercial enterprises and therefore were concerned about the clan's reputation they regarded his attempt to develop his skill as useless waste of time. One day I came into the house having spent hours in the garage trying to get the color right in a landscapes painting and failed, the clan waiting for him they told him how great it could be if he joined the firm paint he could do for fun The family won, next day he appeared in a suit and came to the office quickly grasped the trade of making money he was good at this and soon advanced to higher-up waiting for his turn to be the next president and perhaps a title and fawning respect. To make the picture idyllic of perfection and success he had a beautiful wife and two lovely children not a stable with Arabian horses and several dogs, but his mother, perhaps the only one in the family was worried she missed her son. He avoided his friends, no, he didn't want to talk about his art it was for passing the time. He now had a calling to make the business selling fertilizer products worldwide, but we saw in his eyes his deep desperation, a soul crying in the night One morning the horses were neighing, dogs barking he hangs from the rafter in his stable. He got a stately funeral, flowers, and wreaths from afar his mother was sad she had lost him so many years ago she had been crying
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