The landscape of art has grown cold and dreary, and it’s withering away in sad decay. When the crowd started yelling “They’re no better than me”, did the humble believe, and things became this way? And the players were all driven off when the circus came to town now it’s time to pay the cost. There is no need for your sympathy, no time to hear about a paradise lost. Telling you ancient stories in the darkness to be held for always, they stare at me. Museum dreams are all I have it seems. In a lonely room, bleeding heart, setting its life to rhymes An open book, a closed mind, both stamped in the dust of time. Then they proclaimed “All pretensions banned! This inspiration’s a kind of poison to the common man”. Frozen over were philosophers’ dreams, and salesmen became exalted through their trendmonger schemes.

There among the rows and rows of dusty books where the hunger still grows,
even though there are still shelves to fill, they find no need to treasure cheap disposable thrills.
And on the faces of the things that had been all created long before their time,
forgotten names of the men who were driven by truth, not fame.
Forty million bucks, Sotheby’s luck, Van Gogh finally made the grade.
Ironic discourse, the revenue source laid down in a pauper’s grave.
Now there’s a hole in the canvas that time has worn and the manuscripts are all brown and torn.
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And I told you that an artist’s work is its own reward. They never promised him that he’d be seen or heard.
Just sign your name to these things you’ve made, and cry yourself a little chuckle at the fools parade.

Welcome aboard this ship of dreams. Godspeed my friend on these lonely seas.
Prepare the maps to chart the course of hope. Secure the masts, let go the ropes.
Anchors aweigh and sails to the wind! Feel the ocean spray, let the voyage begin.
Oh mariner stout of heart, brave the open sea! Navigate the stars, set Galileo free again upon the wilderness untamed.
To glory or on the rocks to fall, one for one and one for all. Hear the call, or there’s only one to blame.

Telling you ancient stories in the darkness to be held for always, they stare at me.
Museum dreams are all I have....it seems.