The Work

In turns our treatise;
Hot flashes of insight,
Labored over,
Lived with constantly
Dressed and unclothed,
Then expounded,
Given reception or no;
Colleagues clap,
Some angered.
Are denounced, praised
Given review and words.
Families indignant,
Friends afraid they
`May be spoken of next.'
Some say, `what an idiot',
Others unearth some past indiscretion
Say lays light on character.
All this the faith-giver
Goes through; days in phase and out.
Blame she'll take and then time slips
Knots it's cared much of
Slides past decades and
`We think special was!'
But too late for you.
Your reward in the thing done.
Paint
Sculpt
What script is this?
A book? From you?
Ah so! There
`Fun' is to be seen only
In the first five,
The later are not of you.

Copyright 2002 Joe Duvernay. All rights reserved.

by Joe Duvernay

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