Camus had a point. by Max Bloom

There’s a half-formed drawing
of someone I used to feel something for
(or still feel something for,
why commit to a binary yes/no
when it can be complicated)
surrounded by a blank expanse,
a study in graphite and paper
of the limitations of the artist.

A failure of form?
Conceivably.
A failure of skill?
Certainly.
After all, a lifetime of stick figures
doesn’t lend itself to life drawing.

But I suspect, and hold the questions please,
that even in total accuracy there is failure,
the way a photo of the moon
fails to communicate the same feeling
as standing in its light.

Yet the artist persists,
as Sisyphus, ever rolling
but never quite succeeding.
So let us start this whole ordeal agian,
and see how close to the summit we can get.