Auteurs

"Isn't it funny," a friend of mine said,
"How auteurs gravitate toward flaming excess,
Until their indulgence does them in,
Burns them, crisps them like overcooked bacon,
Chars them like Icarus strips on the griddle.
Delicious still to a few avid palates,
But a waste of talent for most of us."
Purblindly true, I had to agree.
My tolerance for several of this type,
Luminaries whose works I once wholly adored,
Has waned in latter years as they--
Like aging gymnasts--attempted great leaps
And fantastic stunts, whereupon they fell flat
With graceless thuds on the celluloid mat.
They became chained to praise-boosted egos
Lifted high into unsustainable orbits,
Now decaying, degrading into something less cosmic--
Cold tektite lumps on the desert floor.