An artist must suffer for his art,
That much I know to be true,
But there is only so much
That one man can endure.
My surroundings are exquisite,
That I also cannot deny;
The disparity of warm wood
And supple leather
Against the chaste white walls
Is a visual ballad in itself.
Even the way the outside world,
Shining forth through stained glass,
Paints its image in myriad colours
Upon the tiled floor
Stills my marble heart.
Yet despite all that
The page before me remains blank
By reason of such inconsiderate souls:
Philosophers, scholars,
Scientists, and judges
Holding court all around me
At the top of their lungs.
They may be far apart
And their arguments impassioned
(and as before, I am subject
To the stresses of my craft),
Yet I cannot help but feel
One should learn to temper one’s voice
In a place in which the sound
Of dust settling is a crime.
They expostulate, remonstrate,
Deprecate, and moan;
Never quiet, never happy.
But I digress –
How may I assist you today?
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