Year after year,
Staring at hundreds of paintings hung in decorated frames,
Basking in the glamour of handsome patronage,
He wondered what made people buy art,
And why his paintings never found their rightful collector.
Devoid of their thick coat of affluence,
The art buyers were everything but interesting.
All he dreamt of that night were empty frames,
Hung on trees and burning bright.
Startled, he rushed onto the streets
in search of flaming trees,
And all he found was a woman at the traffic signal,
With a basketful of unsold earthen toys.
- The Last Nomad