Poem: The Plight of Dead Artists

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The Plight of Dead Artists

The wing lies on the table.
Plasticine, almost clear.
Framework like leaded glass.

The rest of the creature,
surely dead by now,
stripped of its ability to fly,
has disappeared.

The wing is all that is left.
A thing of beauty,
even lacking
life.

About this poem

The picture was taken on my back porch.

I haven’t sold a painting this month.

Funny where poems come from.

Tom

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