Like grains of sand on winter shores,

They rise—thousands strong,

Hollow-cheeked and wild-eyed,

Paint-stained fingers trembling at dawn.

An army of the overlooked,

Palette knives sharp as broken dreams,

Canvas-burdened backs bent low,

While coffee-bitter hope runs cold.

The gifted few command the front,

Their brushes raised like tattered flags,

Behind them stretch the endless rows—

The good, the tired, the almost-there.

Middle ranks shuffle forward,

Sketchbooks clutched like shields,

Each stroke a battle cry unheard,

Each rejection, another scar.

At the rear, shadows lurk,

Plagiarists with borrowed souls,

Yet even they belong somehow

To this ragged battalion of the lost.

New recruits stumble in daily,

Fresh wounds still gleaming,

Taking their place in this silent march

Toward galleries that never open.

Depression beats its leaden drums,

While inspiration's bugle calls grow faint.

Yet still they stand, still they create,

These warriors of the unseen arts.