Martyr Art

Awaken, as from a tormented sleep
With eyes anxiously looking to creep beyond this
Twisted dementia displayed on the walls
Mysterious mindsets and ink-droplets fall
Muses take flight in an all out war
Shall I catch with open hand?
Or let it fall and start again?
Such words burn the skin
So, enter stage right, might in hand
Before the micro-cosm, stand
Display my efforts, after all
Don’t expect them recognized
Hourly torture, chaos ignite!
Beauty and art give a sign of life
But, as Balzac and Hardy profess
The martyr will burn for her canvas
Elusive horizon, I’m not a threat
You see, I’m for some reason always on trial
Object of detestation — always on trail
O, Solitude! With thee I dwell!
With thee I dwell in our assiduous, gated hell
Trivial — this mind and spirit world
You can’t compare their worth to what is real
At its best, all the critics must confess
This work can outlive death — so what is real?
Because I can’t describe
Half the shit I feel inside your crimes
Targeted intent eviscerating innocence
I swear I’m not a threat
Put down your defense
All I can do is watch in awe…
Feet raking the sand
Hands bound by molten ire
As the broad guillotine blade
Sinks into the horizon
Streams of burning gold burst forth
From ultramarine
Expansive veins and reach towards me
Lending heat to the air
As the Earth is sliced in half
And the dividing line approaches
For every stage turned wonderland
For every sound turned song
For every song turned experience
For every hour drawn long
Accablées de misère en décembre
Les muses se baignent en flammes
Noyées dans l’ombre elles disparaissent
Attendant le divin peintre de l’Univers, le Soleil