BEAUTY IS IN THE EYE OF THE BEHOLDER

Greatness too, 

is in the eyes of the beholder, 

beholden to his admiration, 

coined and stamped as worth.

not money, not collectors of a name, a rumour,

a comment by another 

like a lover intoxicated by their pride of place.

They sway in garlands heavy, 

placed by the hands of those, 

one would suppose, who knew, 

and yet the final judge is time,

the work that stands its criticism fateful, fiery, strong,

she/he's the adjudicator of a work 

sublime enough to carry its message to all people,

the character and potent meaning 

chiselled into the very stones that guard his/her tomb, 

Yes only those who survive the massacre 

of the masses, 

risen as if from death their verse, their canvas, loom, 

is raised again through centuries ahead, 

they are those we never can express: 

"They're dead.!"