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.