the deepest pain of an artist

Sir, I pin my butterfly to the world,
then hawk my wares: calling out,
pointing my finger, attending death – 
“This is a valuable specimen,
worth your expense, a rare masterpiece”
for a staring public rich with ignorance
and I must be paid for my travesty,
for chasing my butterfly and defining it
piercing my soul with its death
and marking it clear with my name.
Being executed, it dies, sir, 
and my living is made by its death.

 

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