False Artistry

The second-hander panders to the masses;
Every belief and whim of the amorphous crowd
Through sieves of mindless mind as scripture passes,
And no divergence from the paradigm's allowed.

His labors transient, with fashion's current shifting,
He's quick to relegate them to the grave
When unto other superstitions favor's drifting
And new elites comprise the dominant enclave.

His tastes simplistic, worn clichés abounding,
His only sentiment a deferential rage,
His only wit like infants' prattle sounding,
He locks himself in the conformist cage.

He thinks that gold within his vaults will pile,
That people will his "normalcy" admire,
That any hint of history in style
Will lose for his works popular desire.

But what men know already's not their limit,
And they pay artists to expand their scope,
Whereas the panderer does merely trim it,
Robbing the thinker of amelioration's hope.

Sole men have always been ideas' bearers.
Collective minds, committee thoughts do not exist.
Tribal perceptions are among the greatest errors
Of men who absolute, objective truth had missed.

Thinker fuels thinker in advancement's quest,
But each mind seeks reality to tame,
Rejecting what delusions fail the test,
And caring not if crowds uphold the same.

But panderers aren't ultimately dollars seeking.
To them conformity's the means... and end.
The tribal urge aesthetic merit's wreaking,
Inciting masses lower to descend.

Only the independent, adamant explorer
Of bold, precise, undaunted flair
Can undermine submission's humbling horror.
Only his plight can second-handers' faults repair.