To Whom is Decent

I wait to awake
again breathing steadily
that musky bleach-white tarp
knowing I'm not home
not knowing where that is
or would be, could be
anyway

Blind opaque light
too sterile to be real
only supposing
this is a pilgrimage
that all artists alike
know all too well

Seen as life
but not really seen
so much as felt
by intangible, invisible
possibly nonexistant
muscle and sinew
or maybe even
dementia

To contain by nature
every sentiment
intended for one of
more secure mind
yet born so creative
that becoming the convenience
seems practical
even expected and thus
required

Oh, but how tortured
is the soul
of the complex
and passionate
artist
that none may
possibly fathom
the carefully linked
and delicately plotted
angst
and ghastly crimes
against the public
decency

Who chooses
the artist
the public
what is decent