See them chasing the rainbows
of their absolutes
In the spike-wheeled chariots
of criticism.
To categorise, recognise and
realise the routes
The artists take to reach the
summits of their goals.
The golden apples of their
uncreative souls.
With ravaged innards,
their parasitic worms ingest
The produce of a fertile mind,
Then excrete it, shrouded
With a thick acid rind.
Opinion dies and curls with time,
The heat of creation draws out zest.

'Ah! But...' you say, Mr. Critic.
'Ah! But nothing, enough, enough'.
You say what you want;
If you really want.