Never had there been
a more charismatic man
than Edward Suree.
Artists of every field orbited him like a sun.
Sculptors, painters, writers…
he promised our work would be famous.
And once he signed his name to it,
it always was.
It wasn’t so bad.
He took credit,
but we lived well
doing what we loved.
But now that Edward is dead,
we all worry.
His lawyers ready themselves.
What will become of us? Our work?
The star has burnt out
and left a black hole.