The-State-of-the-art

I'm a piece of art, yes, just a piece, partly-done,
an unfinished canvas, the paint still wet,
but already,I'm quite summarily abandoned,
and no, the painter didnt forget

what he wanted to do with me,
Nor was it for want of a better palette
But the truth is quite plain to see,
He walked out on me without regret

For sure, he cant risk his name,
Or hurt his ego and fame, no he cannot,
He's already imagined the pathetic shame
When the critics call me "the-state-of-the-art".

He's dissatisfied that I'm not fit to be seen,
I'm rubbish, because he doesn't see what I am,
but only what I could have been,
because when the ship sinks, I'm the only jetsam,

In just another relationship killed by expectation,
Where everything is meant to be a thing of beauty
There's bound to be intellectual assasination,
Surely, when destiny does it's duty.