Portrait of an artist, sleeping

Is that you my friend,
and erstwhile lover,
tired, downtrodden,

disguised as a tramp -
looking for somewhere
to lay your head...

stumbling through the
doors of a building
filled with legacies of
ghosts from the past,

young, talented and
troubled like you -

don't be afraid,
you've nothing to fear

ignore the masses, the
rich and famous, who
only do culture on
Sundays,

you know you're better
than that..

when they're back in the
suburbs, or taking tea
at Claridges,
all this can be yours -
your place, your time,

so turn off the lights,
lock all the doors,
lay down with
the masters you've known
all your life,

close your eyes
and there in the morning,
with paint still wet,

someone will find your
likeness - hanging,

a prime position -
for the portrait of an artist,
sleeping...