The Truth About Masterpieces
Drifting beyond the lightest cloud.
Pastel clowns in postmortem rain parade.
Cascading in the cold moon dust
to shed this latest mascaraed.
Wounded memories hang loosely from the mind.
Autumn berries quivering three quarters past their prime.
When did "mediocre" pock the virgin tree?
When untruth told us, painting by numbers...
was our first gilded masterpiece?
Then entered our very first critique.
When honesty stated our works weren't their cup of tea.
Like evening frost clinging upon a tender leaf.
A devastating reality.
They should have stated the slate-cold truth.
As soon as we could understand
that our masterpieces really weren't worth a damn.
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