Without despair, to play no role of worth,
just happy solitude upon her face
she digs and hides her failures in the earth,
behind a terrifying stance of grace.
She is the artist, born into a world
of dreams, but ever hard to feed and grow;
so train, must she, and have her life unfurled
In nothing planned, expecting naught to know.
In happenstance, her art is not a game
but something of a sport, complete with win
and loss, and oft' it leads to shame;
Enduring menace, patience from within.
Her art is oft' a dragon, made with horns
and claws that terrify the new and young,
and yet this dragon hungers, so forlorn,
and must consume a million on his tongue.
So who will feed the dragon? Let it be
the ones who win the game to feel his breath,
not let him sicken and become the sea.
Yes, there are those who feed him, free from death.
And so it goes, this madd'ning game of luck,
This art lives on through those who give a fuck!
...Ok, the dragon thing came from a quote from Jen's husband Harlan. He said the industry is a dragon that has to eat a lot, meaning everyone has a decent chance at work. I'm not into dragons, really, I just liked the idea of it being hungry...