This poem now I dedicate
Not to the famous nor the great,
Not to the rich nor divine
Not to the graceful nor the fine.
But to the silent workers ahead
Whom each day are easily led
By Others, The Others, of cash and flow
By Others whom morals sunk so low;
They take it all, and laugh the rest;
Like leeches, parasites
So what of the genius that others work
what of the promise that Others shirk?
What of the thinkers in corners lurk
what of the artists who paint with murk?
Do we see them? Nay, we see only the light
Whose unnatural glow blinds all with bright;
Covering the candles that burn soft; Oh!
How quick they burn! How silent they go!
Perhaps its time to do what's right;
But where in the world
lies their knight?
Another place, another time
Another world where talent shines.
A distant land where its always day,
But alas my friend, tis' not the way
that we do live; these words are true
Credits not where credits due.