Painter

Painter

The
Old
Artist
Has 
Grown 
Grey,
His Face
Is
Distracted, 
His 
Body
Contracted,
And
He
Ponders
When
This
Decline
Was
Enacted.
How
Could
Fair
Youth
Decay,
And
Leave 
Him
As
He
Is
Today?
He
Takes
His
Food
With 
A
Runcible
Spoon,
His 
Mind
Astray
And
Empty
As
The
Moon.
Silence
Defines
His
Mood,
But
Defiance
And
Wit
Make 
Him
Fit
To
Deal
With
It.
Shall
He 
Use
His
Remaining
Power
To 
Hasten
The
Final
Hour,
Turn
The
Page 
And
Defy
Further
Age?
Or
Hold
Onto
Life,
Just
As 
He
Ought,
Waiting
For
An
Illuminating
Thought?
Death
Will
Always
Win,
But
Not
In
A 
Rush.
Until
Then,
He
Will
Rise
And
Once
Again,
Take
Up
His
Brush.