The Well Of The Artist

I paint in black and white

A face appears as my creation on canvas

Structured lines expressing the very foundations of chaos

These lines are but words

Words I read from upon each wall, each scene I behold

I swallow the pictures of the surroundings

and set them in the womb of my mind

The plant grows in my garden obscure

From the poisoned ground a flower then rises

Black and dead it still grows further more and more

And I adore it's beauty, grace, it's lonely pride

As I summon it's essence to manifest for me,

powers of creations are running through me

In trance it's nature comes undressed to me

I then gently dress it in colours, and give it name by words,

give it soul by tunes...

Soul by tunes!

For even the flower that springs from upon the grave

holds a mirror of life itself

Yes, even youth and thirsting striving for what's above

But to the grave it's bound forever

My soul must bleed to create

As Osiris - I die to be resurrected

The pain is the words

The tears the real fluid on my brush

I am the crying dying one

I am the magician

For I am the artist

And as the world devours me

I am resurrected in another one

Created from the devastation of myself

Devastation of myself!

I hear the voices haunt across the spaces

They grant me the speech of my world - our world

And though they cut me deep, very deep

I search them for more as soon as they're gone

They hurt so badly, still its of them I consist

There is no real joy in this, purely a need for deed

I travel by the tears, falling down

Into a perfect satisfaction in the soil of the graveyard