A hat sitting alone on a stool.

Small, black limp, it sits in front of the canvas rays of sunshine landing on the blank white, as well as its, black complexion.

The hat sits alone, for there are none who live who remember how to wear it.

Many have abused it, many have used it for purposes it was not meant for.

For it’s one, its true, its only purpose, is to be worn by one with the heart of an artist.

A poet, a sculpture, a painter a scrapper a musician too, can all wear it maybe it will be worn by you. –John Barley