The overfed ego,
unable to squeeze in
enough room for others,
risks dying of loneliness
as much as its counterpart,
the ego malnourished, bereft,
surrounded by clients, not friends—
with a view of what it means to be
who they really are,
the prescription an artist—
not a butcher or candlestick maker—
might supply, if applied to
by a weary soul, ready to give up
on the fairy tale.
This poem appears in my book ROSES IN WINTER. Available for sale on Amazon.