The Forgotten Artist Poem by Patricia Denise Newman

He sits alone 'most every night
watching in the firelight,
his useless hands lie on his knee
lifeless, white deformity.
His once keen eye, now dulled with age
roams round the walls of his mental cage.
The heavy silence in the room
is reminiscent of the womb
from which his once artistic soul
burst open like the flaming coal.
Iridescent flames now form
the pictures that he'd once have drawn.

Time means little to him now-
the urgent need and furrowed brow
forgotten relics of his past
the portraits and the views outlast
the hands that once with patient skill
transformed the canvases at will.
The pride and fame are now all gone
and he is left to linger on.
No-one comes near or hears his sighs
or sees the heartache in his eyes.
The world moves on its frantic pace
shadows moving round his face.