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Paintings hang about for years
Remarkably like children,
While producing fewer tears.
And mellowing with years, then
Growing steadily older,
Overtake the work of art.
Until the one which prospers
Leaves behind the mortal part.
The child becoming adult
Leaves behind the old parent
Who fondly saw the result.
Eternal art, apparent,
As young as when it were done.
Yet children scorn old traces,
Nor want things till they are gone
Or see wealth in loft spaces.
So many years brings some reflection,
And some semblance of reposeful mind,
Searching for more consideration.
Looking for all those things left behind.
The painting excised from someone's brain
Passes no comment or view at all.
And no matter how great or mundane,
A fortune will hang on someone's wall.
R M Meyer
Devon, September 2018